


Weave Soft Spells Over My Sight

by AgnesBlue



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aggressive Derek, Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe, Angst, Claiming, Fantasy, Humor, M/M, Mates, Mildly Dubious Consent, Older Stiles Stilinski, Pining Derek, Possessive Derek, Protective Derek, kinda weird Derek, scene of physical abuse, werewolves are known, younger Derek hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-06 10:36:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 51,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1854937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgnesBlue/pseuds/AgnesBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek had blossomed steadily over the past year, growing into his ears and turning even more handsome, if that were possible. But instead of going out and melting the panties off the girls, suddenly he was coming to Stiles all bashed in, demanding that he patch him up like Stiles was some freelance nurse. It was a familiar pattern by now. </p><p>AU in which Stiles has been living with the Hales for a few years as their assistant and friend. He needs to deal with Derek, who keeps coming to Stiles with bruises and cuts to be treated, while trying to figure out what the elderly alpha of the Hale pack is up to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yay, it's done. My first fanfic and a TW fanfic at that. I'm not completely happy with it but the amount of tweaking I was doing was starting to get ridiculous so here it is.
> 
> A big thank you to everyone who reads it :)  
> Also, thank you to all those who left comments, they mean so much to me and it's truly appreciated.
> 
> It has not been betaed and all mistakes are mine.

The little shit had been in another fight.

Stiles stood in front of the cabinets, rummaging around for supplies. He had forgotten to restock the first aid kit since the last time the Were had come to him dripping blood all over the floor - oh God, had that only been three days ago? - and he needed to improvise.

"Him again?" Preston asked, glancing over at the Were. Derek sat on the built in bench seat where Stiles had told him to stay put or else. Preston had followed Stiles into the Hales utility room where they now were, chatting and keeping him company as he worked, when Derek appeared, his face a mess of bruises. "He's turning into quite the problem child. Didn't think he had it in him. I'm impressed, actually."

"Don't be. This is the fifth time in four weeks he's come to me all bloody and beaten and I'm getting sick of it." Stiles peeked inside a white box and flung it back onto the shelf. Where had he left the bottle of disinfectant? "He's asked me not to tell anyone, that he can handle this on his own, but I'm not so sure anymore."

"Yeah, I can see how he'd hate anyone knowing about this, his sisters especially, when they're practically ninjas." Preston leaned against the wall, hands tucked in his armpits, pensive. "Still, I can't believe he's actually letting you touch him, though. He's always so cagey about anyone touching him. It's almost like you two are... friends."

Stiles snorted, just as skeptical as Preston over the word, because one did not simply become _friends_ with Derek Hale.

"Well, anyway. Enough about the black sheep of the Hale family. Are we still on for Friday night?" Preston asked.

Stiles' own smile turned a little goofy. "I haven't forgotten."

"Good. Can't wait." Preston lingered a bit in the doorway as if he wanted to say something else, but then gave him a little wave. "Have fun playing doctor with the little wolf."

Right. Shaking his head, Stiles returned his attention back to grabbing things from the shelves. When he thought he had all he needed, he went over to Derek. He sighed heavily, cataloging the myriad of cuts and scrapes that had made a fresh appearance on Derek's face yet once again. His lips were split.

"You know, is it too much to ask that you stay out of trouble for at least a week? You're single-handedly depleting all the medical supplies."

Derek didn't answer, simply watching him with those strange eyes of his. Stiles tilted Derek's chin so he was facing him. What a mess. He missed kid Derek, who had rarely given him any grief when Stiles babysat him all those years ago. He had been chubby-cheeked and sweet, if a bit reserved and serious for his age, while his two sisters were shrieking, whirling dervishes that climbed Stiles like he was a jungle gym.

"This is going to sting," he murmured, before stroking a wet cotton along Derek's cheek. The smell of disinfectant stung his nose but Derek didn't even flinch, the asshole. Stiles started cleaning up the cuts one by one.

He certainly wasn't a kid anymore, Stiles thought, absently taking in the scuffed face inches away from his as he worked. Derek had blossomed steadily over the past year, growing into his ears and turning even more handsome, if that were possible. But instead of going out and melting the panties off the girls, suddenly he was coming to Stiles all bashed in, demanding that he patch him up like Stiles was some freelance nurse. It was a familiar pattern by now.

"What are you doing with that guy on Friday?" Derek asked suddenly.

"Hmm? Preston? He asked me out for coffee. He's been Cora's math tutor for five months. You should know his name."

"And you said yes." Derek said, looking at him impassively.

"If you must know, I did." Stiles smeared ointment on a scar. He frowned. "Aren't werewolves supposed to have super healing powers? Why aren't yours working? Maybe you should go see a specialist."

"Do you like him?"

"Oh, I don't know. It's just coffee." He brushed off a smear of dirt on Derek's cheek. "It's nice to be asked out once in awhile, you know?" Then again, maybe Derek didn't know. Maybe his hell was people asking him out on a date every week. "Derek, who's doing this to you? Maybe it's time we tell someone."

"He looks like a monkey."

"Well," Stiles began wryly. "Not many of us had the great fortune of being born a sexy beast like you. And he does not. Keep still."

Derek had started leaning in a little closer, most likely dizzy from taking a rap to the head, but just as Stiles realized just how close, a mouth clamped down over the crook of his neck and bit down hard. Stiles gasped in pain and surprise, dropping the box of bandages he had been holding. His legs buckled from under him and he instinctively tried to pry himself away. But Derek was fast and he was strong - _fuck, was he strong_ \- and he surged up like a flash of smoke, flipping Stiles over and pressing him down onto the bench. Stiles struggled helplessly, pushing at Derek's shoulders but Derek was a Were. It was like pushing on a brick wall.

"Derek. Stop it!" Stiles groaned out, back arching, a fist banging down ineffectively on Derek's shoulder. The sharp teeth were still latched onto his neck, the wolf suckling down like a starving vampire. "This isn't funny!"

Then it was over just as quickly as it had started. Giving the bruised skin a final lick, Derek released Stiles and was sitting back on the bench in a blink, composed as a butler, his expression blank and impossible to read.

Stiles hurriedly twisted away from him and leapt to his feet, a shaking hand pressed against his neck. "What the hell is wrong with you? Have you lost your mind?"

"No," was Derek's infuriatingly calm answer. That was it? That was all he had to say?

Stiles gaped at him like a goldfish, trying to catch his breath, unable to form a coherent sentence.

"You're engaged to Kate Argent!" he hollered when he managed to think of something, confused, and starting to get very angry. "Nibble on her!"

He flinched and took a skittish step back like a baby animal when Derek slid off his seat and moved towards him, afraid that there would be another attack on his neck.

But Derek didn't even spare him a glance as he left. The door shut behind him.

Stiles tossed the used cotton swabs into the trashcan. "What the fuck," he said to an empty room.

 

* * *

 

With a exhausted sigh, Stiles shuffled inside his house, kicking off his shoes and dropping his bag on the floor with a thud.

His place was roomy enough for two medium-sized people, with a plain desk beside a single bed tucked away in the corner and a small kitchenette and bathroom. Talia and her husband Nicholas had been kind enough to let him live on the preserve in their guest cabin after his dad had passed away. He had been living here a few years now. It was small and nothing fancy, built from the very trees on the land. He had managed to make it look quite homey and welcoming despite his utter lack of interior design skills.

Going over to the refrigerator, he pulled out a cold bottle of ginger ale, which he liked to drink whenever he had an upset stomach. He didn't know if it was his stomach that was upset now, but something inside him felt all twisted up and tight.

"Hey, dad," he smiled wearily at the framed picture of his dad, the one he'd placed on the kitchen counter where he ate his meals.

It killed him that he no longer had a photograph of his mom. Everything he had of her had all been lost that day of the fire.

"Such a long day today. You'll never guess in a million years what happened."

He imagined his dad sitting beside him with a can of his favorite stout in hand, inviting him to tell him everything.

"It's stupid. I don't want to talk about it," he grumbled.

Not having much of an appetite, he poked disinterestedly at the sandwich he'd taken out along with his drink before rewrapping it in parchment paper. A hand went up to his neck and he rubbed at it. It didn't hurt anymore, the pain had dissipated fairly quickly and it was the act itself that had shaken him at the time, but it was almost as if he could feel Derek's mouth still pressing against it. He couldn't shake off the unsettling feeling that he'd been branded somehow.

Stupid Derek Hale, he fumed. Biting on him like he was a chew toy. Was it a game to Were teenagers? Chomping on unsuspecting humans? Like planking or unicorning or... whatever it was kids did for fun these days. He didn't know.

Whatever. The day had been long and tiresome, even without Derek's additional weirdness. He decided to quit trying to figure out what was wrong with Derek Hale. Achieving world peace would be a less loftier goal. He touched the bite one last time, praying that it would fade soon.

Stiles washed up quickly and changed into a t-shirt and shorts which served as his customary pajamas. His original plan had been to curl up with a good book the way he liked to do to unwind at night, but he crawled into bed, pressing the side of his face into the pillow .

He was asleep in five minutes.

 

* * *

 

The day broke gray and chilly. Sunlight was always late in breaking through the trees and reaching the grounds of the preserve.

Stiles woke up shivering underneath his blankets, knees tucked up. He lay in bed for a few minutes, staring out the window, listening to the birds twittering. Slowly, he pulled himself up and reluctantly left the warmth of the bed. He stood under the shower, trying to perk himself awake as the water pelted down on him like grains of uncooked rice. When he checked himself in the mirror, he saw with aggravated horror that the bite hadn't faded in the least; a distinct shape had taken place, the teeth marks stark against a circle of dark red bruising that looked like a hickey.

"Dammit, Derek!"

After some digging, he found a t-shirt that was high enough around the neck to hide the bite and yet thin enough it wouldn't cook him to death in this temperature, which was sure to rise by the time it was early afternoon. It would be a headache to explain to anyone what it was. And he couldn't bluff his way out of it, not when he was surrounded by living lie detectors. Satisfied that the bite wasn't peeking through his shirt, he left the cabin and headed towards the Hales.

The open kitchen with its dining table was the hub of house. Lines of bacon sizzled in pan. Maple syrup was _glub glubbing_ out of a leaf shaped bottle over some pancakes. The juicer whirred. Breakfast was the only meal of the day when the food was louder than the people eating it. None of the Hales were morning people, and everyone was too drowsy to talk with their usual vigor. Cora sat at the table eating meatballs while Laura had her nose in a textbook.

"Ugh. Stiles, I'll pay you 100 dollars to write my book report for me. It doesn't even have to be that good. Just fill up all the space with something that isn't a complete and utter pile of bullshit."

Her desperate plea was a familiar one by now, surfacing every month or so when she got really desperate and frustrated with English or history, her two worst subjects, and he ignored her.

"Stiles. Good morning," Talia looked up from the lunch boxes she was packing and gestured with an apple. If there was a woman who could hold anything in her hand and make it look like she was wielding a weapon, it was Talia. She shook her head when he asked if there was anything he could do to help. "No, get yourself something to eat before these animals inhale everything."

Taking a cheddar biscuit from the bread basket, he began brewing himself a pot of coffee that had come from civet poop. The Hales had been given large quantities of Kopi luwak as a gift, but with their insanely advanced noses, they could still smell the feces and the coffee was Stiles' to drink whenever he came by.

He even had his own special mug here, a large, fat ceramic one that no one else was allowed to touch, and he took it out of the cabinet. Cora had made for him as a birthday present when she was little. She had scrawled his name with brown permanent marker - her favorite color at the time - dotting the i with a looping heart, and he had helped her bake it in the oven. He treasured it to an illogical degree.

Working for the Hales was nice, even if it wasn't always easy. Many of the wolf packs, especially those of the wealthier, prominent packs, had human assistants. Nowadays it was more of a PR move more than not, using humans as a mascot of goodwill between the two races, since Weres didn't actually need them for anything, unlike vampires, who turned helpless when the sun was out. A gesture showing that yes, werewolves and humans could coexist side by side in peace and harmony. There was no longer any need for that feudal 'let's wipe the other side out' nonsense their ancestors had been at for centuries.

But personalized mug or not, Stiles knew that he wasn't pack. Probably never would be. And he would learn to be OK with that, when the time came for him to leave. It was inevitable, now more than ever, since Laura was engaged to a human and that was the best image boost a Were could hope for. Laura was going on 18 now and Weres tended to marry younger than their human counterparts, a tradition left over from not too long ago when their life expectancy hadn't been the greatest due to the mass genocide of Weres until humans had stopped to think _hey, wait a second, they're not so bad, we may actually be the bad guys here_.

Gavin would most likely replace him once he and Laura were married. Already he was being groomed for the position, dragged alongside Vincent and Nicholas and Peter to sports games and dinner parties... the sauna.

Stiles imagined himself cast out of the Hale household on a wintery day, barefoot and cradling the mug they'd thrown out with him, shivering in the cold like the Little Match Girl and grew a little glum. Not that it snowed much in the area and he would probably have shoes to wear but still... it was sad.

Just then, Derek came downstairs, dressed in sensible jeans and t-shirt, his typical everyday ensemble. The kid wasn't very adventurous when it came to clothes. Or hairstyles. If there ever was a man not born to be a trend setter or embrace alternative fashion, it was Derek. But he did have a knack for making whatever he was wearing look good.

Pulling out a chair across from Stiles, he sat down. Stiles glared from over a stack of toast and shook a butter knife at him in warning but he was only rewarded with a brief flicker of his eyes on him before Derek poured a bowl of bran and began quietly eating his breakfast. His face had healed completely now, leaving the skin unmarked. Apparently his werewolf healing powers were a little slow to kick in after a wound.

It was difficult to figure out what was going inside that head of his. He had always been the enigma of the Hale household. Whereas every other family member was clear-cut and uncomplicated, precise in letting know what they wanted or what they were thinking, Derek was none of that. He was expressionless and silent, never really liking anything or disliking anything, doing whatever he was told to do without complaint. He would go hours without talking unless someone asked him something. With an attitude like that, Stiles would have half-expected him to look perpetually stoned or sleepy, but his eyes were always surgically sharp, like they could drill straight down into your soul.

He had never once done anything out of the ordinary, had never given his parents any grief unlike his sisters, which was why all the recent fights were so out of character. As was the biting but... that had probably been a fluke. Or a tic of some sort. Stiles had heard adolescent werewolves could be a bit hormonally confused and unstable during that age, especially the unmated ones. Most likely he'd gotten a whiff of something on Stiles and had been unintentionally aroused. Since Derek wasn't acting any different or acknowledging it in any form, Stiles decided to let it drop.

"Stiles." Nicholas glanced up from the Beacon Hills Herald, which he read religiously each morning over a cup of tea. "I almost forgot. Vincent was asking to see you. He's up in his office."

Vincent? Vincent had never once requested a private audience with him.

"I wonder what he could possibly want," Talia said, glancing at her husband as she voiced Stiles' thoughts. "He's been acting so odd."

"Yes, our paterfamilias hasn't been his lovable, squishy self lately," Nicholas said sarcastically. No, Vincent had never been likable. But he had become more broody and irascible the past few weeks or so. Peter told them to let him be, he was probably simply suffering from a general case of malaise, or PMSing, either one of the two, but he had tiptoed around his father all the same whenever Vincent made a rare appearance down to the first floor.

Peter wasn't the only one wary of the old wolf; Stiles had never been able to enjoy with him the friendly rapport he'd established with the rest of the family, with the exception of Derek, of course; the eldest Hale was second only to Derek in treating him like he was invisible.

But it wasn't like he could say no. So Stiles nodded, wiping his buttery hands on a napkin. He noticed Derek watching him and he smiled graciously, conveying that he understood and all was forgiven, there was nothing to be embarrassed about.

Cora leaned closer to her brother who was sitting across from her at the table. "Corbin Haynes asked Kate to the dance. She told him no. Now she doesn't have anyone to go with. And she doesn't want to go alone."

Derek spooned the last of the cereal into his mouth. "Then she shouldn't have said no to Corbin."

"She's waiting for you, dummy. Duh." Cora rolled her eyes. "I'm letting her know you're going to ask her, OK? Derek, answer me. You better ask her by today. Don't you dare make her wait any longer. Derek!"

She stomped a foot angrily as he placed his empty bowl in the sink and left the kitchen, unresponsive to her calls to the very end. "Argh! It's like he doesn't even want to be normal. Or have a life!"

"Cora. Please lower your voice. And don't stomp. Remember what happened last time."

Her foot had punched straight through the wooden planks of the deck, which had not been rotting.

Stiles didn't think she could possibly damage the flagstone tiles laid out in the kitchen, but then again, Weres had been documented hurling beached sperm whales back into the ocean like they were footballs.

Cora whined and Talia threatened her with charm school if she couldn't be more ladylike.

Stiles stood up. Bidding everyone a good day, he went through the formal living room and up the handsome staircase. The polished wood felt nice under his hand and he swept his hand along the banister all the way to the top. He remembered how Cora and Laura would toboggan down the stairs on cushions. Derek never joined in, of course.

Vincent was not in his office. The Hale household was massive, built like one of those posh lodge resorts up in the mountains and for the next ten minutes, Stiles gave his legs a good workout dashing around searching for the man. No one seemed to know his whereabouts. He met Peter and his wife Hannah during his quest. Hannah was pregnant with twins and Peter was helping her along the hallway, holding her hand. Into her third trimester, Hannah had started coming down to breakfast late, preferring sleep over food.

"But don't let that fool you," Peter told Stiles.

Peter liked to lament to anyone who would stop long enough to listen how his wife had the strangest cravings, how she kept a large jar of dill pickles and extra crunchy peanut butter by the bedside, and how he once had to drive to the store at 3:30 in the morning when she suddenly woke up and started crying because she wanted lo mein. But not the instant, microwavable kind, because she could taste the plastic box it was in, so he'd had to buy all the ingredients and prepare it fresh.

"And then! And then!" He would always say, jabbing at the air like he still couldn't wrap his head around it, "when I took it up to her, she didn't want it anymore!"

Stiles had heard the story at least five times. Despite all his grousing and teasing, though, Peter was an attentive husband and Stiles knew for a fact he cherished his mate more than anything and anyone on this green earth. It was him who suggested Stiles try the stables.

"He's usually there when he's in one of his moods," Peter remarked in his silky voice. "He's been doing much of that lately, just standing out there like a Tibetan monk that's fallen asleep during meditation."

Stiles thanked him and ventured outside. A breeze swept through the trees, rattling the leaves and he absently tugged at his shirt collar, trying to cool himself off.

The stable was some distance away from the house. It wasn't large, but it was stately - attesting to Vincent's fondness for extravagance. He had a stablehand come in regularly to muck out the stalls to keep the smell from overwhelming the Weres.

Vincent had three magnificent thoroughbreds, although like wine, the only way Stiles knew how to distinguish horses was by color. Vincent's were black and white and brown, and one of them looked exactly like Maximus from Tangled. It was just as ornery, too.

None of the Hales were actually into horseback riding.

The horses were skittish around the werewolves even when they were in their human form and Vincent was the only one who could handle them, probably through the sheer force of the 'kneel before me' aura he emanated. He preferred to let them loose in the pastures all day.

"All beasts must roam wild and free," he said. Stiles wasn't brave enough to ask him, if so, why he didn't release the horses into the forest.

Also, the werewolves claimed they felt stupid riding another animal.

"If anything should be ridden into battle, it's us," Nicholas had said. Talia told her husband no one rode animals into battle anymore. There were tanks for that nowadays.

"But that would make a super cool movie, soldiers on werewolves," Stiles had chimed in and the conversation had quickly gotten out of hand.

"Mr. Stiles," said a deep, rumbling voice and he jerked around to find Vincent, the patriarch and alpha of the pack, standing there in the shadows. His enormous, leathery hands clutching the knob of his stylishly huge, mainly-for-show walking stick. "Beautiful weather we're having, aren't we?"

Gray clouds were piling over the house. Vincent had always hated the sun.

"Yes, sir." Stiles was never one for formalities and courtesy titles; it made him feel stuffy and pretentious and downright silly, but with Vincent, the 'sir' tumbled out almost automatically. He had that kind of effect. "You wanted to see me?"

Vincent just stood there, gazing out at his domain with penetrating blue eyes. Laura had once joked that Vincent's shoulders had shoulders. It was a good description as any. Vincent was a giant of a werewolf who towered over everything, his chest thick as a barrel. Two long off-colored grooves ran down his left cheek, a parting gift from the alpha that had challenged and lost to Vincent many years ago. His white beard was clipped and made him even more intimidating. He still held traces of the imposing warrior he had been back in the day. He was larger than life, a legend among the Weres near and far and one of the reasons why no one dared mess with the Hale pack.

"You've been with us quite some time, haven't you, Mr. Stiles?"

Stiles quickly did the math. "Going on five years this November." He'd been around Derek's age. He remembered the moment quite vividly. He had been so anxious when his dad called him out of the cruiser to meet the werewolves, trying to imitate his dad's calmness, hiding the quaking of his hands as he was introduced to the pack his father had befriended.

"Five years. My, my. Yes. I remember when you first came here to begin work for us. You were such an inquisitive, plucky boy, if a bit all over the place, with your questions and poking around and boundless energy... "

Stiles didn't think he'd ever heard anyone actually use the word plucky before in describing someone. Had he ever heard someone use it? But Vincent was still talking and he quickly tried to focus.

" ...completely unafraid of us wolves, especially the way you took on my daughter. That takes guts. And your father. Now he was a good man. An honorable man. It's a damned shame what happened to him."

And all Stiles could do was nod mutely, because it was true, it had been a damned shame, and it still hurt to think about his dad.

"Often times I wish Derek were more like you. I love that boy more than life itself but that doesn't mean I always understand him."

Stiles wisely refrained from telling him to join the club. Derek had probably brutally crushed Vincent's dream of having a vicious, limb-from-limb tearing, blood-guzzling grandson who spoke in caveman grunts.

Vincent turned his piercing gaze on Stiles. "You've done a good job. I can only hope Laura's mate will be a blessing to our family as you have been throughout the years."

Stiles' heart began to jackhammer in his chest because _holy crap, this was it, he was being served his walking papers_. He hadn't expected it to be so soon. He wasn't ready for this. He opened his mouth to tell Vincent... thank you, the pleasure was all his? Ask if he could stay long enough to see Laura and Gavin get married, and maybe Derek and Kate as well? If he could be allowed to just stay here, even if he wasn't family or pack, because he had nowhere else who wanted him? The words stuck in his throat and he swallowed painfully.

"Someday I'll be gone from this earth. Talia will take my place as the alpha and my legacy will live on through the generations to come. One can't ask for anything more than that."

Stiles nodded again, not wanting to jostle Vincent out of his melancholy mood. It was not a good harbinger of things when a wolf began to think about death. They liked to believe themselves immortal. He had begun to shiver, although whether it was due to the low temperature or the subsequent firing to come, he couldn't tell. Suddenly, he wondered how pathetic he must look compared to Gavin, who was six foot two and a volunteer firefighter in his spare time when he wasn't too busy being so strapping and manly. He remembered a time when Laura had hotly insisted she was into geeks. Obviously that had been a passing phase.

"I suppose you're wondering why I called you out here, when you are a busy young man, with better things to do. The reason I did so is to ask a favor."

A favor? Somehow he didn't get the feeling it was to fix his computer or go refund an item for him at the store. This sounded deceptively ominous.

"Will you do something for me, Mr. Stiles? Five miles straight to the north of here, you'll find a small lake. It can't be reached by car, only on foot and it isn't on any map. Would you go there for me? Go there and tell me what you find."

Stiles hesitated. Tell him what he found? That was it? He waited for Vincent to divulge more details of the mission. But the alpha kept silent, waiting for his answer. He didn't know what to say. There was no way it was as simple or harmless as Vincent was making it out to be.

"While I understand it must be vexing to work on such little information, it's a matter of upmost importance to my family's livelihood and safety. I would be greatly indebted to you. And I always pay my debts. Can I count on you, son?"

Vincent rested a large hand on Stiles' shoulder, the warmth seeping down and twinging something inside his chest. His mouth piped up before his brain could come to an agreement.

"Sure. I can do it this week. Tomorrow would work."

A smile crossed the marred face in satisfaction. "Thank you," he said earnestly and Stiles knew the old man meant it. "Thank you."

He returned his gaze off into the lush, rolling hills where his horses were galloping around, manes flowing, and Stiles took this as his cue to depart.

The kitchen was empty now, everyone having left for school or work. There was a strict 'clean up after yourself' policy at the table but someone had forgotten a plate in their haste and he set it in the dishwasher.

He didn't know what to make of Vincent's request and it was bothering him. And yes, it had been worded as a request as if Stiles had two options to choose from, but when you got down to it, there was only one answer Vincent was expecting. So he couldn't have said no. Besides, a man needed to earn his wages.

No, working for the Hales wasn't always easy. It was at times like these that really compounded the great divide between them, allowing Stiles to realize that they were fundamentally different. He would never understand them. No human really would.

In spite of their subsequent revealing a few hundred years ago, they had only begun to be gradually tolerated and accepted in mainstream society. Now they walked alongside humans as equals if not superiors, excelling in every elite field. Yet even with the abounding information and research on them, they were still categorized in the system as supernatural beings, alongside the more obscure things that went bump in the night, things that children asked their parents to check under their beds for. Because when it came down to it, they were beasts at heart, compelled by an animal instinct to fiercely protect what was theirs.

There was no way Vincent's little favor was as innocent as he was making it sound.

With a sigh, Stiles went back to his little cabin and began to get ready for the day.

 

* * *

 

The next morning when he stepped outside his little abode, he found a small leather case sitting on the porch. A green tree frog rested beside it, as if it were a traveler lugging a trunk around and Stiles smiled.

"Hey there, buddy. What's that you have there?"

The frog hopped off when he bent down to pick up the case. When he opened it, he saw nestled inside a small brass compass, the kind people took with them on hikes. It was light and fit in his hand, a tangible nudge from Vincent that he mustn't go back on his promise.

"Right," he said aloud. "Got it. Loud and clear."

He meant to go that day, but half an hour later the sky turned gray and lightening cracked across clouds. Without warning, it began to pour heavily, the windows of his cabin rattling from the violent gusts of wind. The rain was so noisy it sounded like sheets of heavy-duty vinyl tarps were being flapped around outside.

He didn't go to breakfast that morning. He was free to come and go as he pleased and the Hales left him to do what he wanted for the most part.

He powered up his laptop and then sat for the next twenty minutes at his desk, chewing on his lower lips and reading and re-reading the arm's length email his professor had sent him during the night. The man was a high-strung technophobe who hated the computer and cell phones and his six kids and the letter was written just the way he spoke, filled with typos and rambling run-on sentences, often with numbers in place of words like it was a text message.

He had been awarded a long-term grant to research ancient Were history and was going to Turkey for a year during his sabbatical to study with other scholars. The screen practically vibrated with his excitement. He actually sounded hysterical.

It was the very last paragraph Stiles' attention kept coming to, the last few lines, actually. He was asking Stiles to come along as a research assistant.

_Your presentce woud be greatly valuaable_

He was leaving next year near the end of spring and would give Stiles a couple of weeks to think it through. Stiles didn't know what to think. The timing couldn't have been better, to be honest. He remembered the trepidation that had overtaken him at the assumption that he was being asked to leave. It hadn't happened yesterday, but it would be inevitable. He couldn't hang around at the Hales forever, living in their guest cabin.

At least he didn't have to respond right away. He closed the laptop.

It was something to think about.

 

* * *

 

Alright. He could do this. Stiles bounced around in front of the cabin, shaking out his hands.

Ten miles-ish, coming and going. It was completely doable, he was a virile young man in his prime, with energy to spare and a great pair of running shoes. He liked jogging. He did it three times a week. He could _do_ this.

If he did this today, then he could dock off a few miles off his run tomorrow. Or not, but then treat himself to an extra muffin. Either way, it was a win-win. It was like Vincent was doing _him_ a favor. Telling himself that, several times in fact, he began to run.

He stuck to ratty t-shirts and shorts when he worked out, none of those compressed, super professional wear that made you look like a dolphin. Inside his right pocket was the compass.

It was early in the morning and the air was brisk. He started off, loping between the trees, getting whipped in the face by a branch, tripping over a mossy log, swatting his way out of a swarm of tiny flies.

Much of the preserve was chartered and the supernatural entities accounted for. He knew that there was a tribe of trolls? or was it gnomes? living far south, and some really hot-tempered fae living far, far down south. Not two months ago a handful of bird-demons had come from Egypt, requesting refuge. Then there were pockets of this and that scattered all over the preserve, all having formed a binding contract with Vincent. He would allow them to live in peace and protection on his land, and they would in return fortify the preserve with their magic. Stiles hadn't been exactly sure on the inner-working of the contract and how it was mutually beneficial until Talia explained that it was like a mall leasing out its space to shop owners; empty stores meant bad business for the mall. Simply put, the more the merrier. Without the presence of supernatural creatures, the preserve was just a large stretch of land and nothing more.

There was a reason why there was a huge fine for trespassing and the Hales were so diligent in guarding the parameters. It was downright dangerous. Most people didn't know that or didn't to believe it. They thought magical creatures were cute and cuddly, like the polar bears in those Coca Cola commercials.

Often a befuddled hiker or birder made a wrong turn somewhere and ended up passing the boundary lines. The Hales went easy on them. Then there were the troublemakers, the exhibitionists who came to have sex or massive, romping orgies, and the thrill-seekers who deliberately ignored the warnings to stay away and inevitably ended up screaming for help while swinging upside down from the mandibles of a 8 foot monster. Laura still had that video clip on her phone.

Stiles himself was included under the Hale protection clause, which meant that any and all creatures on the preserve were not to lay a hand, claw, tentacle, et cetera, on him under punishment of death or banishment.

The woods were denser now, the colors more deep and dark. Less sunlight filtered through the thick canopy above his head.

He was sweating, shirt clinging to his backside. He wiped at his forehead and checked the compass. Keep going north, Vincent had said. He thought he was doing well. His legs were actually holding up and his lungs didn't feel as if they were being filled with sand.

There was a certain, uncultivated beauty this deep in the forest that not many people had the opportunity to see.

A girl with luminous eyes and feline ears peeked out from behind the trunk of an enormous tree and waved cheerfully as he staggered by. She was gone by the time he thought to ask if she knew about a lake somewhere and whether he was getting close to it.

But he thought he was on the right track. The ground grew marshy and wet, his sneakers making spongy indents in the mud.

And then, after some more panting and dragging himself forward, there he was. He came to a stumbling halt, chest heaving, already worried how he was going to make it back home on a pair of rubbery legs.

It was just a lake. He hadn't been expecting a dragon to be swimming around, but he was surprised at the "not specialness" of it all.

No, a few more steps forward told him something wasn't right. He wrinkled his nose and stepped gingerly out into the clearing, pushing a branch aside. The lake was foul and stagnant, the shore encircled in a pitiful line of dead aquatic plants. He took a cautious step forward. It wasn't just the smell, though. Normally, water like this should have been a breeding ground for mosquitoes. But the entire area was motionless, eerily silent without the sound of birds or the annoying drone of bugs. _No sound of birds_ , he realized with dismay. When a part of the land started doing weird stuff like that, it never meant anything good. There was virtually nothing alive here.

He inched closer to the edge and peered through the water the best he could, shading his eyes from the sunlight glinting down like sharp, yellow knives. The surface was plastered with mottled, soggy leaves that reminded him of rotted fruit.

What was that? Something was floating up under the water, spreading open like a white blanket. He squinted harder.

Before he could react, a pale hand shot out of the water and grabbed his ankle. He didn't have enough time to even so much as scream before he toppled to the wet ground with a hard smack, going from vertical to horizontal in a second, and was dragged down under the surface. The drop was instant, so steep, that it was almost like falling in from the edge of a swimming pool. The water was much colder than he'd expected, seeping through his pants and his shirt and then he was flailing underwater, completely submerged. Fear seized him. Logically, he knew that he hadn't changed direction, that his feet was down and his head was up, and all he had to do was swim back up to reach the surface but the water boxed him in from all sides and there was the sensation of having been trapped in a snow globe and madly shaken.

A face loomed in the murky depths. The woman was the color of bleached bone, clothed in something that seemed to be a part of the water itself, her hair fanning out like silk. He would have thought it was a corpse if not for that fact that she was bobbing serenely as he thrashed about. Her eyes were sealed shut, almost blending seamlessly into her cheeks, yet seemed to examine him intently nonetheless.

A hand wrapped around his throat - _oh shit he was going to die, he was going to die_ \- and then she thrust him upwards, the force propelling him back to the surface.

Hacking and shuddering, he crawled back out onto the shore, mud squelching between his fingers. He spewed out a mouthful of brackish water and just heaved for a while, down on all fours.

"Oh, gross," he croaked when he was finally standing upright again, sludgy water oozing out from his sneakers. The breeze picked up, brushing over his damp skin and he shivered uncontrollably. "I saw a mermaid," he wheezed, rubbing his arms in an attempt to warm up. "And it tried to kill me."

The woman had pressed something into his hand. He forced his numbed fingers to unfurl, only to find two milky opaque stones the size of marbles lying in his palm.

Was this all Vincent expected him to do? Could he go home now? Or did he have to try to talk with the woman or see if something else happened? He waited for a few more minutes, just in case, then decided _fuck it_.

God, he smelled. He smelled so bad. He was glad he couldn't have brought the jeep, because driving back would haven't getting back inside the car. But he still didn't relish the thought of all that walking. He peeled off a few fronds and twigs stuck to his arms and clothes. The compass was waterlogged. He tried to shake some of it out, but knew it was a lost cause. He was doubly glad he hadn't brought his cell phone, which hadn't seemed like such a great idea at first.

Wringing out his shirt, he turned around to begin the long trek back home. He found he couldn't run anymore, now that the foam of his sneakers were squishy and making a squeaking noise that was slowly beginning to fray his nerves.

The bugs began to reappear soon enough, along with the annoying whine of mosquitoes and he waved them off. He thought he saw something black and sleek dart through the trees - a wolf? one of the Hales? - but it moved too quickly for him to recognize what it was.

It took longer to get back home and he was itchy and miserable, moving one leg after the other like twin sacks of cement that only seemed to grow heavier as he reached his destination.

Most of the sludge had dried and cracked over his skin like a mosaic. Since there was no way he was tracking mud into his cabin, he headed instead for the outdoor shower to the side of the house. It was here the Weres washed themselves off after a frenzied night out on a full moon.

Knowing he had the entire property to himself for a few hours, he shucked off his disgusting clothes, boxers and all, and slopped them inside a plastic bag to toss away later. Only a metric ton of detergent would wash the muck out of them. It wasn't worth the time nor the effort. He wasn't sure what to do about his sneakers, which he'd only worn several times before today and might be salvageable, and set them to the side.

The showerhead was nearly the size of a manhole cover and it was amazing. He even told it so, several times, as he stood under the pounding flow of water and scrubbed himself clean, using his nails to get the thick, elephant-hide like mud off. When he felt clean enough, he twisted off the shower and stepped out from the stall, dripping wet.

Not that he wanted to go around flashing anyone his bare butt, but living next to werewolves for over half a decade had made him less leery of full-on nudity. After all, the Hales practiced it _en masse_ every month.

Back inside his house, he patted himself dry with a towel. When he stopped in front of the mirror, he saw that the bite on his neck was still there. Smaller, a little less red, but visible.

It would fade in time, he was sure. Despite a persistent misgiving that it wouldn't. There was still that strange sense of having been branded in some way. He shrugged it off.

After some deliberation, he stuffed the two marbles in the front pocket of his jeans. They weren't made of glass and he was sure they wouldn't break. He would give them to Vincent tonight.

He went back to the main house.

Cora had a fundraising activity at her school and she'd begged him to make something for the bake sale since her hands were full with track and theatre class. He let himself into the Hales through the back door, which led him straight into the giant kitchen.

Cora had left him a note tacked to the front of the refrigerator.

 _Brown butter sea salted caramel snickerdoodles! Peanut butter cup cookies!!_ she had jotted down in her aggressive handwriting, underlining the sentence _nothing else is acceptable!!!! ingredients are all there!!!!_ five times. And of course, ending it all with a smiling heart, which she had always seemed to believe absolved her of everything.

Beneath the note were the recipes she'd printed out on pale lavender paper.

"What the hell," he whispered. Sea salt? He had been thinking of going with the all-time favorite, can do no wrong chocolate chip cookies. He still had his mother's favorite recipe memorized, locked inside his head like gold in a vault.

He began pulling out bowls, standing on his toes to reach the higher shelves, and spreading them out on the island counter.

He stopped when he realized that he wasn't, in fact, as alone as he thought he was. He could see a black-haired head leading down to broad shoulders over the line of the vintage leather sofa out in the living room. He circled around to peer at the unexpected family member. No one was supposed to be back for another few hours.

"Derek? What are you doing here? Why aren't you at school? Are you sick?" He asked in surprise. He knew for a fact Derek had left for school in the morning. Derek only glanced up at him before returning his attention to the book in his hands. Of course. He would never make it that easy. Rolling his eyes, Stiles went back over to the refrigerator.

"One day someone is going to invent a machine that can read minds. On that day I will buy that machine no matter how much it costs and I will read the heck out of your mind." He sighed. "Or maybe you're not thinking anything and your brain is completely blank. I don't know."

The last thing he wanted was to ruin another shirt and he tied on an apron before getting to work. After a moment of thought, he set out two bowls and one bag of Reese's peanut butter cups and another bag of caramel candy squares. "Unwrap these for me, please. And don't eat any."

Derek dutifully opened the bag and went to work, setting aside the wrappers in a tidy pile.

Stiles rummaged out the rest of the ingredients. He liked to bake, even if he couldn't manage anything to look pretty even if his life depended on it. It was the taste that counted.

He didn't know what was more surprising, that it didn't take too long to make the two cookie recipes and slide them into the pre-heated, industrial-sized oven or that being alone with Derek would be so comfortable.

He found half a sandwich in a Styrofoam container, just the right size that would keep him until dinner and not ruin his appetite. The law of the jungle was if it wasn't clearly marked with a name, it was free to eat. If you didn't and the food was gone, then too bad.

He settled on the sofa a seat away from Derek, who was reading again now that his task was done. The house was starting to fill with the aroma of caramelized sugar and hints of chocolate. Already, the events at the lake seemed surreal, like a bad dream that he could barely remember. He felt content and languid, stretched out on the cushions like a fat cat.

"Want a bite?" He offered generously.

"Yes, I do." Another flip of the page. The book was _One Hundred Years of Solitude_ , which achieving was probably his main goal in life. He hoped Derek hadn't picked it solely based on the title alone, thinking it was a manual.

Stiles held out the sandwich, wagging it a bit when the seconds ticked on, but Derek didn't look up.

Resigned, he pulled his arm back and hoped someone would really invent that machine before he died. He would never understand Derek Hale otherwise.

When the oven timer let out a series of beeps, he took out the cookies and examine them. As expected, they were slightly lopsided. Rustic, Stiles amended, setting the trays aside to cool.

It was late in the afternoon and the sun was setting, casting a brilliant orange hue over the tips of the forest. He sat there on the sofa, contentment oozing out of him. He watched Derek read, his long, elegant, tapered fingers clutching the spine of the novel. He wondered what it would be like to press his palm against Derek's, if it would feel smooth and papery, if they would be bigger than his. In a few years, Derek would be larger than Stiles. That much was a given. The span of his shoulders were already much wider than they had been six months ago.

Then it was almost seven and the rest of the family members began to arrive and the house was filled with the jingling of keys being hung on the hotel-style key rack mounted on the wall next to the front door, the cadence of different voices calling out to each other and with quick footsteps in the hallway and up the stairs. This was the time of the day Stiles liked the best, when if felt as if the house was being brought back to life. Yes, mornings were busy and noisy, but in an hour or so the house was left standing empty. In the evening, everyone gathered again, bustling about, full of stories of their day. He hated an empty house.

"Smells heavenly," Talia walked in, high heels clicking primly on the tiles. She was dressed in a crisp blouse and pencil skirt and looked smashing. "You'll make someone an amazing husband one day, Stiles."

She noticed her son. "Derek. Would you care to explain to me why the principle called and told me you suddenly ran out of the room during class like a bat out of hell and never bothered coming back?"

 _He what_? Stiles waited alongside Talia to hear what Derek had to say.

"No," Derek answered.

"No?" Talia's elegant brows furrowed thunderously. "Want to try that again, pal?"

It was doubly frustrating when Derek got like this, because it never seemed like he was being deliberately rebellious or acting out, just simply stating the fact that no, he wouldn't cooperate even if it meant getting his fingernails pulled out with pliers.

He looked up at his mother. "No."

Closing his book, he left the room and Talia watched him leave in astonishment.

"What has gotten into him lately?" She tossed her purse onto the counter. "I would get heartburn whenever I saw those bratty, grunting teens on TV or in the movies. Now my own son is turning into one of them. Unbelievable. Why can't at least one of my kids be normal?"

"I don't know. I think Laura and Cora are pretty OK," Stiles said tentatively.

"No, Stiles, they're not." She poured herself a cup of water and knocked it down like it was a shot of vodka. "Nicholas keeps telling me I should leave him alone, boys need their space and that they're twice as difficult as girls but...ugh. Then again, maybe he's right. Peter was an absolute jackass when he was Derek's age."

She glanced at the cup in her hand with dissatisfaction. She was a great mom but even so, Stiles knew it had to be hard raising three teenager Weres, two of them opinionated and stubborn as a radioactive mule and one of them basically a sociopathic robot. There had just been one of him and he'd given his dad plenty of grief.

"Are you staying for dinner?"

Just then, Nicholas came into the kitchen and gave his wife a long hug.

Stiles watched them embrace. They were the silliest couple he knew and they were so in love. He wished in ten years he would be doing the same with his partner. Dancing hand in hand in a dimly lit room with music drifting in the background. Sharing bites of dessert. Yelling at their kids together. "Yes, if you don't mind."

She paused from greeting Nicholas to glance at him. "Don't be silly. We love having you over." And further warming his heart: "It feels wrong when you're not with us."

He was grinning idiotically at that, when Cora burst into the kitchen and slammed her books down as if she had seen a spider on the counter.

"Was grandpa on crack when he arranged Kate and Derek's marriage?"

"What now?" Talia blew out.

"Ugh. Derek's the worst!" Cora began dramatically, flapping her hands about like an ostrich trying to take flight, dark ponytail swishing from side to side. "He acts like Kate doesn't exist. He won't even ask her to the dance, the asshole. Who treats their fiancée like that? Kate is the prettiest girl in school. Guys are literally cutting off their left testicles just to talk to her. Just because it's a done deal doesn't mean he can't treat her that way, like she doesn't even exist. It's not like they're already married. He has to woo her. Who does that loser think he is? His hard to get act is getting seriously annoying."

She whined after her impassioned speech, "Seriously, mom. Make grandpa make Derek be nice to Kate."

"Or perhaps he's not playing hard to get," Peter remarked mildly from the doorway where he must have stopped to listen. It seemed like today would be one of those days where everyone came home at just the right time and they all ate dinner as a whole family. "Perhaps he doesn't feel that way for her."

"It's Kate Argent," Cora told her uncle as if that should explain everything. "She is totally out of his league and if it weren't for grandpa, she wouldn't even be deigning to talk to him. So he should show some gratitude."

She gathered her books and flounced off, her long braid bouncing against her backside.

"Yeah, Peter. It's _Kate Argent_ ," Talia mimicked to her brother once her youngest was gone. She and Peter exchanged troubled glances, then he pushed himself off the door frame and went to find his wife.

"There must be a lot of one-ball wonders walking around that school," Nicholas commented wryly.

Laura was the last to come home, announcing loudly that she had brought Gavin along with her as she entered the house.

Dinner came and went, and as usual, most of the Weres gathered in the family room for a few hours afterwards. Cora started a game of monopoly, Nicholas crouched down beside the huge stone fireplace, the main feature of the room, and burned a few cords of cherry wood. It was a pleasant time. It was selfish but Stiles wished time would stay in place for a little longer. Everything was changing too fast and it unsettled him.

Vincent, who had graced them with their presence at dinner, announced he was tired and retiring for the night. Stiles took this as his cue to talk to him in private.

He hadn't often been in Vincent's study, only once that he could remember, and he fidgeted slightly, feeling like a naughty kindergartener standing before the principal. The desk was between them. He knew that the office, like most of the rooms in the house, had been meticulously soundproofed and they would have no issues being overheard. Vincent was clutching his walking stick. Stiles thought he looked like a wizard moonlighting as a mob boss.

"So, Mr. Stiles. What do you have for me?"

Stiles told him what happened as best as he could. Even with all the details, there wasn't much to tell. The longest, hardest part had been jogging up there and getting back, which he knew Vincent wasn't much interested in. He apologized about the ruined compass and Vincent waved a hand impatiently as if it were of little consequence.

"And this woman. Did she say anything?"

Was it his imagination that there was a quiver in Vincent's voice?

"No, she didn't. But she gave me these."

He set the stones on top of Vincent's dark mahogany desk and was alarmed to see Vincent's mouth settle in a even grimmer, down-curved line. One large, calloused hand reached out but paused, the tips of his fingers hovering half an inch away in the air as if Vincent didn't quite dare to touch it.

"I see," was all he said. "Yes. I see."

Stiles wondered if any of this made sense to the wolf. He himself was completely mystified.

"My pack has been good to you, has it not?" Was Vincent's sudden query.

"It has."

"And you've been happy here during your service."

Not knowing where he was going with this, once again afraid that this line of questioning was the precursor to being sacked, Stiles could only nod. But yes, he had been happy here. Amazingly so. Nothing could ever replace his father and mother and the family he'd once had, but he'd found unexpected solace in the welcoming arms of the Hales. It would kill him if anything happened to them. Vincent looked like he knew this.

"I'm a foolish old wolf," Vincent brooded. "I haven't always done things I'm proud of but it was always with the best interest of my pack in mind. Because pack must be protected no matter what."

His blue eyes regarded Stiles gravely. "I can count on you to keep this between us." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you. Go enjoy the rest of the night with the family. I have some thinking to do."

He wanted to ask if everything was alright, but Vincent had already lost interest in him, morosely considering the stones. Stiles slipped his way out of the office, closing the door behind him with a soft _snick_. When he rounded the corner down the hallway leading to the staircase, he was surprised to find someone standing there, casually leaning against the wall.

"Gavin. What are you doing up here?"

Gavin uncrossed his arms and stepped to the side, using his bulky frame to block Stiles' way in a classic move perfected by jocks and bullies. A move that Stiles had come to hate with a passion, because he'd been on the receiving end of it all throughout high school. His handsome face was twisted meanly, so incongruous to his charming, winsome character that Stiles was momentarily taken aback.

"What did Mr. Hale want with you? It's the second time he's wanted to talk privately."

"Yes, privately. So I can't tell you anything since he doesn't want anyone to know." He waited, then exhaled when nothing happened. "Could you please move out of the way?"

"What's going on? Anything that happens here is something I should know about. I'm going to be pack in a few months."

"Good for you. Why don't you go tell Vincent that, then? It's not my call to make."

He tried to move around him and was shoved back to face Gavin again. "I know what you're trying to do, Stilinski." He glanced down the stairs to make sure no one was coming up. He spoke in a flat hiss, clearly not wanting to be overheard, knowing he needed to be careful. "You're trying to weasel your way in here, take my spot."

"Are you serious?" Stiles bristled. He didn't appreciate the way Gavin was jabbing a finger at him. "Did you inhale something while putting out a fire?"

"Yeah, I fucking am. I'm right, aren't I?" Gavin's chest was heaving in self-righteous indignation and Stiles took a step back, stunned at how the normally level-headed guy was acting. This was a side to him he hadn't ever seen before. And didn't care for. Gavin looked ready to punch him. His eyes flickered uneasily to the staircase. "A pack only needs one human and you know you're going to get kicked out soon to make way for me. So you're doing everything you can to get into the old wolf's good graces."

Stiles gritted his teeth and counted to three. He didn't have the skill set necessary to shove Gavin and instigate a semi-decent fight without losing a few teeth and his dignity. "I'd like to go downstairs now."

"Hey. Hey. Orphan boy. The Hales have been nice enough to let you stick around after your dad died, out of some moral obligation and pity, I'm sure, but once I get the bite and become one of them, you're out, like yesterday's trash. So watch it. Know your place."

Satisfied that he'd said his piece and gotten the last word in, Gavin turned and went downstairs. Stiles heard the girls clamoring about, asking him where he'd been, it was his turn to roll the dice.

Stiles slumped against the wall and rubbed at his face with shaking hands. This was unexpected. He hadn't known Gavin had been boiling with resentment and jealousy as he watched Stiles go in and out of the house, interacting with the Hales and receiving the affection that should have been wholly his.

But even so, did he really have to get so testy about it, going so far as to sully his carefully maintained good-boy image? In the end, what the hell was he so worried about?

Because pack always came first. And pack blood was thick, so thick it was practically gelatinous. It didn't matter how long he'd been with the Hales. He wasn't pack, there was no way they would pick him over Gavin.

"Fuck. I really don't need this right now," he muttered wearily. He had enough on his plate.

He carefully went downstairs and snatched up his messenger bag he had left at the end of the hallway. He breezed past the entrance to the family room before any of the Weres could pick up on his emotions.

"Bye!" He called out and slipped out the door before anyone could stop him.

 

* * *

 

The days limped along until it was Friday. Nothing out of the ordinary happened in the interim. Vincent was cooped up upstairs in his study or out at the stable and no one saw much of him. Gavin reverted back to his jolly, sweet-as-apple-pie underwear model self. Neither of them spoke more than ten words to Stiles during that time. He was fine with that.

But there was an unshakable sense of foreboding, although he would have been hard pressed to say exactly why he felt that way. It was nothing he could bring up to any of the Hales. So he stuffed his worries in the back of the many drawers that formed the intricacies of his mind, to ponder over when he had more time and details that would help him stitch together a bigger picture.

He was spending the final hours of the afternoon in the utility room, taking inventory. It was here that the Hales stocked medical and emergency supplies. An entire shelf was filled with jars and canisters of obscure roots and herbs. It was his job to make sure they didn't run low on anything. There were two smaller, adjacent rooms that were used as heat chambers when necessary. Perhaps for that reason, none of the other Weres liked coming in here. Stiles had been the only one to go in and out on a regular basis. Until Derek, that was.

He glanced at the large whiteboard with satisfaction, where he'd scrawled in marker:

 

it has been

 **4** days

since D.H bled all over this floor

 

Four days and counting. At this rate, he could probably make it through an entire week. It was sad how happy he was about this. He turned around, whistling and...

...and there was Derek.

Stiles rushed to shut the door and block it with his weight. Like they said, once bitten, twice shy.

"No. Stay out," he said, then was pushed back along with the door when Derek simply swung it open and came inside. Stinking werewolf super strength. "You better not bite me again."

"I'm not going to bite you."

"Hop on," he said glumly and went over to the sink to wash his hands, sagging in defeat. It hurt him to see Derek hurt. "You know, this is getting ridiculous. I think it's time you told someone that kids are bothering you. It might be a blow to your ego, but your poor face. It's been so good to you and this is how you treat it."

Derek regarded him evenly, the way he always did. "You're sad."

"So we're doing that thing again where we each have totally different conversations? And I'm not sad. Well, if I am, it's because of you. You make me sad. Try to grow at least an ounce of self-preservation and common sense, if not some decent fighting skills. I won't be around forever to patch you up behind your parents' back."

Derek lifted his head at that, although Stiles missed the way his eyes sharpened dangerously.

Stiles unscrewed the bottle of antiseptic. "I mean, you know. I'm not pack and Gavin's going to be your human. I mean, not _your_ human, but... never mind. Forget I said anything. I'm not sad."

Stiles busied himself cleaning Derek up. He wasn't aware how expressive his face became as he worked, curling his lips back in a sympathetic grimace as he washed out the cuts, tsk-tsking over a bruise.

He wondered how many people got the chance to touch Derek like this. How many people Derek would sit still for.

"OK. Almost done. We're getting there."

He brushed back the dark strands of hair to get to a nasty-looking cut and Derek's eyes fluttered shut.

"Shoot. Did I hurt you?" Stiles said anxiously. "Sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to do that."

He leaned in close, trying to assess the damage.

Warm lips closed on his own, parting them ever so slightly. A hand cupped his cheek, bringing him closer and Stiles was too surprised to even react. It was the chastest, softest kiss he had ever received, and it alone was enough to make his brain short circuit completely. This time it was Stiles' eyes that closed, and he stood there, drowning in Derek's scent and his warm mouth and his everything.

He felt flushed from head to toe, the world around him crumbling away, awash in white noise. His entire body tingled like bubbles were trapped underneath his skin and it was as if he were falling gently down into a bed of downy cotton or lifted up into the clouds, he didn't know which, perhaps both, and...

...he shoved Derek backwards.

"No!" He whipped out one adamant finger in a 'bad dog' gesture. A line had to be drawn. "That is not cool. Look, I know you're shy and you don't have any game, but you really have to stop doing this. You do not get to practice your moves on me."

Derek's nostrils flared slightly and he stared at Stiles like he was spectacularly dense.

"Mom wanted me to remind you about the BBQ tomorrow afternoon. Don't be late." He slid off the bench in one fluid move and moved towards the door. "Enjoy your date with Preston."

"Hey, where are you going? I'm not done yet!" Stiles said.

And... he was already gone.

With an aggravated groan, he picked up the marker. He erased the 4 and replaced it.

 

it has been

 **0** days

since D.H bled all over this floor

 

* * *

 

Truth be told, it had been a long time since he'd been out on a date and an even longer time since he'd dated anyone. So he found himself waiting in front of the bistro where they'd decided to meet, clammy handed and more nervous than he expected he'd be, stomach twisted in knots. He didn't know if it was a good sign, that he was nervous. Stringed lanterns were hanging outside the restaurant and he stood in overlapping pools of orangey light, rocking on the balls of his feet.

"Wow, you look good," was the first thing Preston told him when he arrived. Stiles could sincerely return the compliment. He liked that Preston wore rimmed glasses and had a smattering of freckles over his nose and was dressed neatly in a navy blazer and chinos, the front of his hair gelled up in a peak. He had the best grin, too, all crooked and confident.

Once inside, they were quickly seated at a table despite the crowd. Preston knew him well enough that he hadn't gone with anything fussy or fancy, and Stiles soon relaxed at the friendly ambiance and the raccoon-eyed waitress who told them straight out they were out of any dish with chicken in it, which was one fourth of the menu. There was a chip on the rim of his beverage glass and a badly painted portrait of a bulldog smoking a cigar hanging over the wall next to their booth.

"I'm so sorry." Preston apologized, leaning closer with an abashed grin. The light glinted on his glasses, making him look like a devilish bookworm. "I swear this place had great reviews. I had no idea it would be like this."

"No, it's fine. I like it." He did, too. The place was amusing at the very least, and Stiles was all about the amusing. They ordered their food and gave their menus back to the waitress.

"Are you OK?" Preston asked. "Do you need some ChapStick?"

"No. Why?"

"You keep touching your lips."

He immediately locked his hands together under the table, cursing himself. "It's nothing."

The conversation flowed easily without any painful lulls. They talked about school and the upcoming break and working for the Hales. He found out, with some surprise, that Preston didn't enjoy it as much as he did.

"I don't know how to explain why but I can never fully relax when I'm with them. I mean, the Hales are awesome, but I can't help it. I'm always afraid they're going to read my emotions or wolf out and make me piss my pants. I've never actually seen a Were shift before. Or eat me. I guess if I'm being really honest, a part of me feels that they're not one of us."

"A lot of humans feel the same way about Weres. Don't beat yourself up about it."

"But you don't treat them any different. I like that about you."

They moved on to less serious topics.

"My most embarrassing moment? Wow. Where to even begin." Preston drummed the palms of his hands on the table. "Oh. One semester, after finishing my finals, I got roaring drunk and somehow got it into my head that it would be a great idea to take off all my clothes and serenade the poor saps studying in the school's main library who still had another day of exams to go. I guess my drunk brain thought it would cheer them up."

"So, there I was, in the snow with a guitar God knows where I got from, because it wasn't mine, singing **"Somewhere over the rainbow" on a loop** at the top of my lungs at two o'clock in the morning. I serenaded the fuck out them, I was so sincere. The police were called and I ran off. The only reason why I didn't hurl myself off a roof afterwards or my mom didn't disown me is that I was too inebriated to take off my briefs. So in the YouTube video circulating around, you will find that I am not doing a full-Monty."

"Oh, man. That's amazing. I bet you're a legend at your college."

"Yeah, I kinda am," Preston said with mock-primness. "There was an article in the newspaper and everything."

Stiles thought for a moment. "I had a habit of washing stuff in the toilet at home when I was younger, like around four. I guess because it was lower to the ground I thought it was a sink for little kids. I don't know, I was stupid."

"Nah, that's just cute. That's not embarrassing at all."

"Then one day, when my mom was in charge of snacks I washed apples in the toilet and she unknowingly handed them out to the entire class to eat."

He remembered another one. "And once, in 6th grade, I asked a girl out over the phone but it was actually her mom."

Preston spewed out a little of his ale and quickly cupped a hand over his mouth. "Fuck. Did she say yes?"

Stiles threw a crumpled straw wrapper at him.

"OK, how about this. The best kiss you've ever had in your life."

His mind drifted unbidden to Derek this afternoon. How he had smelled, musky and spicy, like he'd been sleeping in a sunny patch out in the woods. How warm he had been, his hand touching Stiles' face. He caught himself and he quickly ducked his head, cheeks burning feverishly in confusion and shame. He reached for his drink, just to give his shaking hand something to do.

Unfortunately, Preston noticed. "Ooh, I bet it's a good one. Come on. Spill. It wasn't with your friend's mom, was it?"

"Um, no. It wasn't. I don't think I have one," he said lamely. "You go first."

And Preston just smiled as if he understood and kindly changed the subject.

Three hours later they were walking outside in the cool night, both laughing at some joke one of them had started and the other had piled on. Then just as they were tapering off, Preston tripped slightly on a crack and they started laughing again, Preston clutching onto his shoulder. Stiles glanced up at the sky, giddy from good food and good company.

Beacon Hills was a small town and didn't have much light pollution to begin with, but he was amazed at how pale the sky was compared to the sky above the preserve, which was almost always an inky, alien black glittering with stars.

"Thanks for asking me out. It was - it was really nice."

"Yeah, definitely," Preston breathed out. Stiles knew he was going to kiss him even before Preston leaned in.

 _and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant_ he thought nonsensically, eyes fluttering shut, the other man's breath warm against his cheek. Preston was a good kisser. He seemed to think the same about Stiles.

"Definitely in the top three. Definitely."

"Yeah," Stiles stuttered without knowing what he was answering to. His heart was pounding. "Yes."

A hand slid under and up his shirt, caressing his bare stomach... and then jerked back as if an unpleasant shock of electricity had passed through them, Preston letting out a grunt of surprise.

Stiles realized too late what had Preston so bewildered and he flinched, hastily tugging down the hem of his shirt with both hands, the beginning of the oh-so familiar wave of misery on the verge of washing over him.

"Is this from the fire a few years back?"

"Yeah. Uh. The scars didn't fade as well as it should have." Which was technically a lie. The doctors had told him he should be grateful for this amount of scarring, that it was on a part of his body he could cover with clothes. He should have been cooked alive.

"Half of my chest is like that. I know it feels - ," He laughed hollowly and wrinkled his nose. "Well, you know how it feels. Does it gross you out?"

"No, not at all, why would you even think that?" Preston was quick to reassure him. "Sorry I reacted that way, it took me by surprise, that's all. I wasn't, I'm not - no, it doesn't bother me at all."

Thanking him seemed wrong, so Stiles kept quiet. He didn't want to thank someone for not finding him gross.

"Does it hurt?"

"No, not anymore."

Whatever make out mood that had befallen on them was dispelled. They had started to walk again, following the sidewalk with some distance between them. Stiles was disappointed, but also relieved.

Preston had paid for dinner and Stiles offered to treat him to dessert. They had decided to try out a nearby cafe, famous for their chocolate ice cream, right before they left the restaurant, but it seemed that their meandering feet had another a destination in mind. Conversation soon tapered off and they walked in silence. Not awkward, just silent.

Together, they went up the preserve trail to the Hales, that well-worn path so familiar he could find his way blindfolded. The house was dark against the backdrop of trees. He saw from afar that several of the lights were on in the rooms, yellow squares gleaming out into the black night.

They took a right and a few yards later, they were in front of his place.

"We should do this again sometime," Preston said. "We could do dinner again. Maybe a movie."

Stiles had never been well-liked by people his own age. He hadn't had many friends in school. He didn't blame them. He had been too chatty, too spastic and socially inept, and after his dad's death and the fire, too broken and too much in pain. He'd come to accept that people generally didn't like him, not romantically at least. Even now he was a stunned and a little grateful that Preston was asking him out again. Preston was OK with his scars. He could do this. He was normal.

"Sure."

"This was fun. I had an amazing time. You're not bad to be around, Stilinski." Preston's arms were reaching out to him, as if they planned to wrap around Stiles and reel him in.

_Thwack_

"Ow, what the fuck?" Preston twisted around, a hand going to the back of his shoulder where something had hit him. It rolled down to the ground where it joined the gravel path. They both looked up to see where it had come from.

A figure stood in the dark, silhouetted against the trees.

Stiles squinted. "Derek? What are you doing here?"

The voice that floated back to him from the gloom made him shiver. Derek didn't sound like a 16 year old. "Dad said you have the keys to the toolshed."

Oh, right, that was right. "OK. Just... give me a minute. Stay there."

Preston whipped his head around at Stiles, jaw dropping in astonishment and anger. "That little psychopath threw a rock at me!"

"Sorry." Stiles made an apologetic face, somehow feeling responsible for Derek, although he had no idea why.

"That kid freaks me out. He's not normal," Preston whispered loudly. Stiles didn't know why he was bothering to whisper; at this range, Derek could most likely hear him rubbing his fingers together.

"Well, we both knew that already, didn't we?" Stiles smiled weakly, sneaking a glance to his right. Derek quietly stood there as he was told to do, hands in his pockets. "Listen - ,"

Preston simmered down and finally looked at him. Stiles let out a sigh. "Thank you for dinner. I had a great time too. Um. I guess I'll see you tomorrow at the barbeque."

"Yeah, looking forward to it. The barbeque, not seeing you again," Preston joked easily and they grinned at each other. "No, I'm glad you'll be around to witness me eat an obese child's weight in ribs. I plan to eat so much I'll vomit if I bend down to tie my shoelaces."

"That's... disgusting."

"Well, I'm a poor grad student so...not doing that would be stupid," Preston said and gently squeezed Stiles' fingers. "I'll be going now. See you tomorrow."

He didn't attempt to kiss Stiles or hug him again. He scowled at Derek as he passed by the Were, who ignored him. Then he was gone, his figure growing smaller and all Stiles could see were his beige pants, until that too was enveloped in the darkness.

It was just the two of them now.

"This is not the way I envisioned my night ending," he told Derek sourly as he pushed his way inside his small house.

"Were you going to have sex with him?" Derek asked with disinterest, following him inside. He picked up a Rubik's cube from the counter and examined it.

"No, for your information, I wasn't. It's our first date and I don't want to get to know him _that_ well." Stiles yanked out a drawer and plunged a hand inside its depths to start rummaging around. "But I would have liked for it to have had a teensy more romantic conclusion than you trying to embed a rock in his skull. What was that, by the way? Who the hell does that?"

At least Derek didn't insult his intelligence with a lame lie or excuse. He didn't appear particularly contrite about it, however. With a sound of frustration, at both Derek and the missing key, he moved on to another drawer, muttering to himself. Where had he left the stupid key? Why did he have so much junk?

"Are you going to go out with him again?"

He didn't bother to answer and Derek didn't push for one.

Ah-ha! He pulled out the chain triumphantly.

They stared at each other for a few seconds. The light cast a mellow shadow on Derek's face, making him look older, more wolfish. Stiles half expected his eyes to gleam blue.

"Derek."

The boy glanced up at his name. His jaw was scruffy with stubble and Stiles ducked his gaze, trying to think of how to best word what he wanted to say next. "Kate's going to be there tomorrow at the picnic."

He couldn't tell if Derek was even paying attention.

"You should spend some time with her, get to know her better. I bet you two have a lot in common. Besides, she really likes you."

"Is that what you want?"

Stiles shrugged helplessly, groping around for something he could say that would ground him and lessen some of the confusion dragging him down like an anchor tossed into the ocean. "She's your fiancée."

"That's what everyone keeps telling me."

He pushed the keys into Derek's hand and stepped away quickly. "It's late. You should go in now before they start worrying."

"They know I'm with you."

Stiles looked away. "You should really go. I'm tired. Goodnight, Derek."

He shooed Derek out the door and shut it firmly. The cabin no longer seemed to be shrinking and squeezing the air out of his lungs now that Derek was gone and he could breath again.

He hadn't been lying. It wasn't that late; the date with Preston had ended a few hours earlier than he'd predicted, but he was exhausted.

"What on earth? How?" he muttered, picking up the completely solved Rubik's cube Derek had left behind. The kid had been working on it for a grand total of two minutes.

He went over to the mirror and carefully pulled up his shirt. H examined his reflection, running a hand over his chest. Right to left, undamaged to damaged. Contracture had been minimum, but it still depressed him to move his fingers over the large, stiffened area of skin. You didn't get the real impact of it unless you were seeing it up close, but even from a distance the skin appeared mottled, patches of baby pink blossoming through his natural tone.

He was ashamed of it, even though he had spent countless hours trying to convince himself that was dumb to be ashamed of something that wasn't his fault.

He washed up quickly and crawled into bed, hugging his pillow.

 _Wow, Stiles Stilinski. Two kisses today. Someone's on a roll_.

He let out a shaky laugh. His thoughts went back to the end of the date, to Preston. It was shame that he felt then, a deep shame that he knew he deserved to feel. Because he had been thinking of Derek instead when Preston pressed his mouth against his. He remembered the jolt of surprise and disappointment when he realized that the head leaning against his was a spiky, pomaded brown instead of black, the eyes a chocolate brown behind black-rimmed glasses instead of the sharp hazel-green. He thought of Derek's kiss, how heartbreakingly sweet it had been.

His mind was an agonizingly indecipherable mess, his thoughts swelling like a dam about to burst. He wished his brain was a TV he could click off with press of a button. It would make his life so much easier.

He sniffed, then drew in a deep breath. There it was again, the smell carried by the wind. Swampy and cloying, like dead leaves rotting in a pool of stagnate water. The same smell from the lake. There was no way that it could have been carried from the lake all the way over to the house.

It kept him up, this no longer new revelation that something was brewing in the horizon. But in the end, he closed his eyes, falling into a restless sleep.

 

* * *

 

The day was brilliantly sunny. It did not rain, like the meteorologist had vaguely hinted it kinda, sorta might. The Hales, like most other Weres, tended to trust their instincts more than science when it came to the weather and other natural phenomena, and their gamble to go forth with the outing had obviously paid off. There wasn't a single cloud to be seen in the crisp cornflower blue sky.

The picnic was held in the open, flat area of the preserve. It was secluded, perfect for several family of werewolves to gather and let loose. The Hales, especially the Hale men, were huge grilling enthusiasts, which was interesting to note since there were times when they preferred their meat raw and still alive. Stiles supposed it was a male thing, as opposed to a Were versus human thing. Peter and Nicholas were barbeque rivals.

Stiles went over to the house early in the morning to help, although there was little to do since Talia had had her children do the lion's share of prepping the food. Cora was wrestling with a salad spinner, jerking at the pull-cord like she was trying to start a lawnmower.

"Key to a happy marriage, Stiles," Talia told him with a wink. "Make lots of babies and have them do everything. Then go have fun with your spouse."

"And she sticks to that rule so hard," Laura said, shaking her head in exasperation.

"But Stiles doesn't need my help. He's going to be a great husband, like I always say." Talia took a sip of a clear drink she'd poured into an oversized cocktail glass. It probably didn't have an ounce of alcohol in it. Her one peeve of being a werewolf was that she couldn't get drunk no matter how hard she tried, but she liked to look the part for special occasions.

She also liked the bottles liquor came in, saying they were pretty and used them as decoration in the large cabinet out in the hallway. She had quite the collection of rare drinks.

The patio door slid open and Derek came into the kitchen, carrying an empty tray. He was wearing a royal blue shirt that actually had buttons running down the front and was stretched across the broad chest, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal arms that were muscled, the swarthy skin lightly dusted with hair.

Stiles had to look away, a flush rising on his cheeks.

Talia set down her drink. "Oh, there's my boy. Isn't he gorgeous?"

She reached out to him and was halted immediately by an irritated Cora. "Please don't be one of those ridiculous moms that think their sons fart unicorn dust and shoot rainbows out of their assholes. We do not throw around the word 'gorgeous' lightly in this house. He is just _OK_."

She turned to her older brother and whipped something out in front of his face. "Derek. This is a called a bouquet. When Kate gets here, you give this to her. And tell her nice things. About her."

"I bet she'll love those from you," Stiles said encouragingly, while trying to telegraphically convey the message that Derek was not to tell Kate that Cora was making him do it.

Ignoring both of them, Derek stepped next to Stiles to set the tray inside the kitchen sink. Their upper arms pressed against each other and Stiles felt his heat passed through their sleeves.

"Kate's here!" Cora squealed excitedly. "Behave, Derek!"

She burst outside, running towards her friend. Laura asked Derek to help her carry the assorted beverages outside.

Through the window, Talia watched the Argents climb out of their sleek SUV, sunlight glinting off the black chrome, her green eyes suddenly pale and sharp. Chris was ushering his wife and two daughters down to where the picnic was set up, each of them carrying a dish in their hands. Allison had brought along her boyfriend, a goofy kid named Scott.

"I don't like that man," she said, in a manner reminiscent of the deadly wolf that was always a part of her, watching the last person get out of the car. He was old, back ramrod straight, his hair a crown of salt and pepper.

Gerard Argent? Stiles knew she wasn't particularly fond of him, but this was the first time she was saying it out loud.

Rumor was that he'd been cheating on his wife non-stop while she was dying of cancer, the same kind that had taken Stiles' mom, then marrying a woman younger than his son before the ink on the death certificate was barely dry. So no, he didn't hold Gerard in high regards either.

He didn't know much about him other than that he was a longtime friend of Vincent's. From what he'd been told, Vincent had arranged the marriage between Derek and Kate as a symbol of their friendship, a merging of two families into one, so clearly they were in it for the long haul.

Other Were families soon joined in and a bevy of cars gathered around the driveway. It was getting noisy and chaotic. Stiles greeted a few of the Weres he knew, most of them friends of Cora and Laura. The two were popular in school and where ever they went; their magnetic vivaciousness and good humor made it hard not to like them. There were a few teenage boys in the mix, but none of them appeared particularly keen to talk to Derek. Derek was an outsider, through and through.

The air grew heavy and smoky with the mouth-watering aroma of meat grilling. A veritable feast was spread out on the two picnic tables, laden with so many dishes it was a wonder the table legs didn't snap off.

To Cora's immense joy, even though he didn't have the bouquet, Derek went over to Kate, who looked lovely in a lemony sundress, her long hair the color of burnished gold and cascading down the slope of her creamy shoulders in a half ponytail. They both looked like models waiting for the cameraman to show up for a pictorial shoot. Derek gestured towards the forest, away from the others, and Kate nodded, feigning nonchalance. They walked away, side by side. Stiles envied the life they would have together. There was a lump in his throat that he ignored.

"Such a little minx," Laura said from behind him, where she had been watching as well.

Vincent came up to him and roped an arm around Stiles' shoulder. "Come with me. Let me introduce you to my friend."

Fighting against him would have been like fighting against the tide. Stiles was once again amazed at how powerful the man was, even in his old age. He was a head taller than Chris, who was the second tallest person there.

He was pushed into a small group of adults. Gerard and his wife Jillian, and a slender Asian woman Stiles had never seen before. She looked at him with keen interest. They each held a drink in their hands.

"This fine young man is Mr. Stiles," Vincent told the woman proudly, his voice as impressive as a boom of thunder. "The late sheriff's son."

"Ah, yes. Sheriff Stilinski. I'm sorry for your loss," Gerard said politely, if a bit perfunctorily. Stiles refrained from telling him that his father had been dead for three years and he'd met Gerard a couple of times since then.

"Mr. Stiles here is my right arm. He's helping me out with a situation."

"Is he now?" A glint of something sparked in Gerard's eyes, something that made Stiles uneasy. "I'm glad to hear that. I hope he serves you well."

Jillian gave him a smile that tried to be friendly and failed. She always looked like it hurt her to stretch her lips. There was a reason the Hales dubbed her the 'Ice Queen.'

"And this lovely lady is Yumie." Vincent kissed the hand of the Asian woman standing beside him.

She had a petite, aquiline nose and thin lips. Her black hair was cut in a blunt bob and her smile revealed a row of snaggleteeth. She wore no makeup and was nothing like the late Mrs. Hale Stiles saw in the photographs.

Nicholas and Talia speculated she might be the reason for Vincent's odd behavior the past few weeks - nervousness of having a new lady friend - but Stiles wasn't so sure.

But whatever she was to Vincent, her demeanor was far more pleasant than Jillian's. She greeted Stiles with genuine pleasure, eyes crinkling around the edges.

"You're very handsome," she complimented him. "I like your moles."

She herself had just as many moles as he did, scattered all over her cheeks.

They chatted for a short while, Stiles listening intently as she reminisced about her travels around the world. She had been to Ankgor Wat in Cambodia and thrown dye powder at the Holi festival in Nepal, both of which he desperately wanted to do.

"And you, have you done much traveling?"

"No, I haven't had the chance. But I will," he said in determination. He hesitated, then threw caution to the wind. "I might be going to Turkey soon. There's been an offer from my professor to research with him over there. I'm still undecided."

"Well, hopefully you'll have many adventures no matter where life takes you," Yumie said sagely. Yes. He could drink to that.

He stiffened when she said there was something on his neck, thinking that she was referring to the bite mark. But she only brushed at the back of his neck and didn't mention the bite. "I've taken care of it."

Then Vincent pulled himself away from the Argents and wanted to talk to her.

"I hope to see you again soon," Yumie smiled.

"I have no doubt that you will," Vincent responded for Stiles.

Stiles told her goodbye and parted from the group. He found himself at a picnic table with the younger crowd. Derek and Kate hadn't returned yet and Cora put her matchmaking on hold to go talk to a crush of her own, a boy her age with a tousle of blond hair.

But wolves didn't like sitting still and at some point Stiles found himself alone with Gavin and Preston. The rest were running about. One little girl had brought a hula hoop.

The food was amazing. Stiles wasn't sure if Preston actually ate as much as he'd declared he would, but it was close. Afterwards, stomachs as tight as a drum, they eyed the alcoholic beverages with interest, which the wolves had been kind enough to provide for them. There were a few selections in an ice filled beer cooler. Stiles declined when Preston offered him one.

"You sure, Stilinski? This stuff isn't your garden-variety, gas station shit," Gavin said.

He didn't know much about beers and wouldn't have known the difference if it were. Gavin grabbed so many that it would have been smarter to just haul the cooler over to their table. He snapped open a can.

"I need to enjoy it while I can. Once the bite takes, it's the one thing I'm going to miss."

"So you're going to go through with it? Take the bite when they offer it to you?" Preston asked curiously.

"Of course. I'd be insane to refuse. Little kids dream of being an astronaut. I dreamed of being a werewolf," Gavin knocked back the can of beer. He was back to being the nice guy Stiles had always known him to be for the past year and seemed to have completely forgotten all the nasty things he'd said to Stiles. He didn't have a hair out of place, Stiles noticed dourly. "It's the new superhero."

"If you say so, man," Preston laughed. Under the table, he kicked Stiles gently on the leg and gave him a warm smile.

"Fuck, this is good stuff. The Hales don't do anything half-assed, I gotta give them that." Gavin drew in a long breath. "Oh, man. The smoke smells good. That charred meat smell. Love it."

Stiles promptly got up, with the excuse that he wanted to get some more food. He didn't want to hear Gavin talk about anything related to fire or smoke. It was too much of a trigger.

Hannah was sitting on a lawn chair in the shade, fanning herself with her hand and he brought her a glass of cold lemonade, the ice cubes clinking together around some basil leaves. She thanked him and they watched the crowd together. Nicholas cheerfully waved a spatula at them. In front of his own grill, Peter waggled his pinky finger at Nicholas.

"Idiots," Hannah muttered and Stiles snorted.

She turned to him. "You can rub my stomach if you'd like."

"Huh? Oh. Thank you." He reached and carefully pressed his hand against her belly. She was wearing a gauzy blouse and a gypsy skirt and her rounded stomach poked through the gap between her top and bottom clothes. A beautiful henna design of a crescent moon surrounded by intricate spirals decorated her belly.

"Don't be so scared. I won't burst."

"Sorry. I've never done this before." He pulled his arm away after a moment, awed. She was really getting big and it was incredible to think two baby wolves were nesting inside her stomach. "Have you thought of some names yet?"

"We each have a list. Mine is short and filled with sensible, classic names that will not get our twins beat up on the playground. Peter's sound more like the names you give to avatars in Warcraft."

He laughed and plucked at the blades of grass under his feet. "It can't be worse than my real name. And no, I'm not telling you what it is."

He adjusted the collar around his neck. "My mom was about four months pregnant when she passed away."

Hannah didn't say anything but he could tell that she was listening. They all knew the story, of course, how she had passed away from cancer when he was in elementary school. But this was something he hadn't told anyone before. He suddenly wanted to tell someone, share his memories and let her live on. He didn't want to carry them alone. Sometimes he imagined he was forgetting the sound of her voice and the tinkling way she laughed and it scared him. He couldn't let his parents slip away through his fingers like grains of sand.

"It was a girl. I was really excited at the thought of having a baby sister. I kept telling my mom about how I was going to dress her up as Princess Leia for Halloween, with the bun ears and everything. I'd be Luke and we'd be the most awesome duo ever." He glanced at her wistfully. "They were going to name her Elena, after my grandmother."

"That's nice. Elena. That's a beautiful name."

They fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts. A few minutes later, Hannah apologized and excused herself. "Sorry. I need to use the bathroom again. Could you help me up?"

He started walking back over to the picnic table.

Preston hadn't stopped at one can, he noticed. A messy pile of empty beer cans were set between Preston and Gavin as they enjoyed a drunken, animated conversation. Snippets of it drifted over to where Stiles stood.

"Man, like some of the burn victims... man." Gavin shook his head dejectedly. "I can't imagine living like that. Some of them look like shredded spam meat. It's the saddest thing. You really can't save them all. One of the first things we learn."

Preston nodded as if he understood. "Stiles has burn scars too."

Stiles felt the ground swoop from under his feet.

"Yeah? Stilinski?" Gavin perked up in interest, then frowned. "Really? Oh, right. He was in that house fire. The one that killed his pops."

"That's the one. I accidentally touched it. Last night." Preston burped into his hand. "It didn't feel like spam."

 _Please shut the hell up_ , Stiles thought desperately. He wanted to march straight up there to tell him himself before anything else came tumbling out of Preston's drunken mouth, but his legs wouldn't budge. It was as if his feet were glued to the ground. He was tense, waiting to hear how Preston was going to describe it.

"More like..." Preston flapped a hand around. "It felt like... making out with a really stale cheese pizza, kind of?"

Gavin groaned out a sympathetic sound, then the two giggled together drunkenly.

Stiles went over to the empty stretch of grass to sit by himself, his mind as blank as a new sheet of paper.

He remembered the talks he'd had with the counselor the Hales had set him up with when they realized he wasn't coping well. It was in front of the grandmotherly woman that he'd finally broken down and voiced his fears that no one would ever find him attractive enough to love. Deep down, he had always felt that way, a remnant from his teenage years where girls had spoken to him only when they needed help with homework. The scars only served to compound and cement those fears.

He remembered how she'd gently told him that it wasn't true. It had been a long time before he could even begin to consider she might be right. But now... he wasn't so sure.

He didn't know how long he sat there. He suddenly realized he wasn't alone. Someone was standing beside him and he followed the long legs up to see Derek looking down at him. The sun was over his shoulders and Stiles couldn't see his face. The sky was a brilliant blue. He wanted to go lie down somewhere under it and have the world fade away. For once, there were too many people around him.

"Hey," he smiled, even though it was wan and tired. "Are you having a good time? Did you ask Kate out to the dance?"

"Who hurt you?"

Derek's voice made his skin break out in gooseflesh. It was how assassins must have spoken to the king they'd pledged allegiance to, promising retribution and bloodshed.

"You should try the carrot slaw if you haven't. I think it's my favorite. And your dad wins hands-down today for his ribs today. Don't tell Peter I said that, though, he'll give me the stink eye for a month."

He hurriedly stood up, brushing off the seat of his pants. Derek captured his wrists in each hand, keeping him from going anywhere. Stiles hung his head, unable to look up at him. He knew he must be reeking of misery and humiliation. And Derek was scaring him a little.

"Who was it?"

"Let go of me. Stop reading my emotions. I don't like that." This was getting ridiculous. He should know better than to let a teenager jerk him around, what with the biting and the kissing and acting like... like...

"Stiles."

...acting like Stiles was actually something precious to him.

"No, don't. I swear if you don't let go of me right this instant I will scream bloody murder."

Someone did scream bloody murder just then, although it wasn't him. Startled, they both looked up towards the sound. A sickening hush had fallen over thepicnickers as they stared confusedly in the direction where a woman was letting out a bloodcurdling scream. She went on and on, not even pausing for breath.

Jillian Argent.

Gavin darted by. Stiles wrenched his arms away from Derek's momentarily loosened grip and began to hurry towards the sound as well.

Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Gerard was stumbling as if he'd been shot, covering his face with both hands and Stiles' mouth went dry.

No, not his face. His eyes to be exact. Rivulets of blood flowed down his fingers, deep and red - so red and so much of it that it looked fake. There were words to Jillian's shrieking now, she was screaming shrilly at someone, anyone to help her husband. But even Gavin was at a loss what to do, standing there dumbly like he'd been turned to stone. This wasn't a seizure or a heart attack or a piece of food lodged in the throat. They didn't train you for this down at the fire station.

"Call an ambulance," someone - Nicholas? - said grimly. He was standing in front of Chris' panicking daughters to block their view, corralling them away from the gruesome sight. Peter was doing the same to a few of the other children and teens.

Derek came to a stop beside Stiles, watching the unfolding scene.

"Nobody go near him. Nobody go near him!" Vincent roared, swishing his walking stick in the air like a sword. "Someone shut that infernal woman up! Shut up!"

Jillian tilted back as if she'd been slapped, finally falling silent, splotches of angry red rising on her cheeks. She looked towards her husband as if to ask whether he would tolerate such disrespect towards her, but Gerard was beyond helping anyone or protesting anything. Chris' wife rushed over and escorted her hyperventilating step mother-in-law away.

One of the guests' teenage son held up a cell phone to film the scene then grunted in pain when Vincent swung his stick down on his wrist, the phone dropping onto the grass.

Vincent bellowed, "No pictures! I don't want to see this on Facebook or Twitter or... Hashtag or... whatever social media is out there!"

He glared at his guests until they stepped back, murmuring uneasily.

He went over to Gerard and smacked him on the thigh with the end of his stick. "Sit down. You'll be fine. Help is on the way."

Gerard was groaning heavily but he did as he was told, lowering himself down on the picnic bench Vincent dragged over.

"Remove your hands. Let me have a look."

"Yes, you have a look. Because I can't see anything," Gerard said. Stiles didn't have to be a Were to know that the man was frightened.

Stiles gasped when he caught a glimpse. Through the blood dripping relentlessly down his cheeks, the pupils Gerard uncovered had turned a cloudy white.

Vincent turned to his daughter. "Talia. I want everyone gone. Now. The party is over, as they say."

She began to herd the people away. The crowd moved reluctantly. Stiles heard Gerard whisper hoarsely, "Vincent, you have to do something. This can't be ignored. She'll destroy us all."

"I don't like being told things I already know, old friend," Vincent told him reprovingly. "I told you I'm handling it."

Then Talia called out to him to get inside the house immediately and Derek was pulling him away.

 

* * *

 

An unnatural silence had fallen over the residence, the kind that only came when everyone was out. An ambulance had whisked Gerard away half an hour ago, the sirens echoing through the preserve, the rest of the guests had left long before that.

Talia had asked Stiles to stay with her three kids while the adults discussed things. She told him not to let anyone leave the house, not even to gather the picnic supplies and remaining food left outside. He herded them into the family room.

Cora tugged on his arm. "Is that what happens when you shoot cocaine through your eyeballs? Is that was Mr. Argent was doing?"

"No, Cora." Stiles shook his head. "I... no. I don't think Mr. Argent is on drugs."

"But isn't it possible? I read about this one street drug, bath salts, I think the name was, and it turned a person into a zombie. He ate someone's face off. Like while the person was still alive. There's some weird shit out there."

She went on for awhile in this gruesome vein until Stiles told her that while he did not disagree there was indeed "some weird shit out there," there were other more plausible explanations for what happened to Mr. Argent, who was not going to "give birth to baby demons from his eyeballs," and she really needed to get started on her social studies project if she wanted to hand in something presentable by the due date, which was not far off.

"But it's Saturday," she whined. "And I want to talk about this. It's more fun."

"Don't you want to go on a trip to Paris with your fiends next year? The way your parents promised you could if your grades are good? Although I don't know why you'd want to."

"Yeah, making me watch Taken was so not funny. Besides, I would have gutted those kidnappers alive and made them eat their own intestines like Twizzlers before they could so much as drag me out the door." She smiled at him brightly. Stiles didn't doubt that she would.

Cora moved to go upstairs, then twirled around. "Derek. Call Kate and ask her how she's doing. I bet she'd like that."

"Leave him alone. Stop pestering him about Kate," Laura piped up. She sounded weary.

"What? Why? What are you talking about? You said he needed to be more proactive in their relationship."

"What relationship? They don't have one. You can't force him to like her. You're being fucking annoying." She glanced at Stiles. "Sorry."

"But he needs to get used to her. They're engaged."

"Just - no more, alright? I mean it."

Proving that there was a definite hierarchy that the wolves followed, Cora didn't argue back.

Stiles glanced over to where Laura was sitting, listlessly flipping through a bridal magazine. She seemed distracted. "Let's wait to hear what the hospital has to say about Mr. Argent. I know it was scary and you're worried but I'm sure he'll be fine."

"I don't give two shits about Gerard," she muttered, leaving him speechless.

Cora came back downstairs lugging a bag brimming with art supplies and began to work on her project.

Stiles watched them as they each did whatever they were doing. None of them seemed particularly perturbed by the events today. Maybe they were chalking it up as a freak medical condition.

But something was going on. He kept running Vincent and Gerard's conversation over and over in his head. There was a deep unease, that today had been just the tip of the iceberg. The rest was hidden under the surface of waters that were dead and barren as the lake up north, monstrously large, waiting for the right time to rise up and crush everything in its path.

He couldn't tell anyone what he knew, since it was a violation of Vincent's trust and probably a good way to get Vincent rip-roaring mad. So all he could do was wait for something else to happen.

It wasn't a very good choice, but it was the only choice he had.

 

* * *

 

Several days later, his world was turned upside down.

He spent half an hour sprawled out on the bed like a starfish with his blanket tangled around his feet and the ceiling fan rotating madly above him, blinking away sweat and trying to ease the boiling thoughts inside his head to at least a simmer. Would some Adderall help him? He had stopped taking them a few years ago when they interfered with his antidepressants, but he could get a prescription easily. It wasn't a very appealing option though.

Then when he couldn't take it anymore, he knew he needed to get out, off the preserve, even away from the Hales, the house, everything.

"It's Thursday, Thursday, it's the day before Friday, the day after Wednesday, two days after Tuesday. Thursday, Thursday, three days out from Monday, a full week from Thursday, a fortnight from the next," he sang tunelessly as he washed up and got ready.

He drove over to the library in his jeep, parking under a leafy tree. The blast of cold air was a welcoming reprieve from the sweltering heat outside. He saw with delight that no one was sitting at the table he thought of as his and he emptied his bag, placing his laptop in front of him.

At first he looked up the program in Turkey, hoping it would help him come to a decision. Then he alternated between that and looking up supernatural creatures. Then he abandoned the first project entirely and began his search in earnest, clicking on every link and opening tab after tab.

Supernatural research was what intrigued him the most and what he did the best. He had helped the Hales from time to time, zeroing in on a creature that had been wreaking havoc in Beacon Hills and figuring out how to defeat it.

And he could do it again. He would begin by finding out who or what the lake lady was and start from there.

Water nymphs. Nereids. Sirens. Mermaids... no those pertained to sea water... Selkies? But she hadn't been a seal. Naiads. Shape shifter? The Loch Ness monster...

While there were an abundance of information on water creatures, none of them seemed to hit the mark. Nothing about a woman living in a dead lake and handing out white marbles, nothing about attacking the eyes and making them bleed. None of them seemed to have a time-old rivalry with werewolves. What were they dealing with, then? It had to be something.

He was reading the meager options he'd written down on his notepad:

\- take a look at Hales downstairs library

\- go to lake again ?????

\- ask Gerard Argent what the hell is going on

when he suddenly realized someone was hovering behind him.

When he turned around, he saw that it was one of the librarians. Ms. Kelly was a middle-aged divorcee, plump and meddlesome and slightly batty. It was no secret she spent most of her time tapping away on her laptop writing werewolf-human erotica. Laura, who'd taken a peek at it once while Cora distracted her, had informed Stiles that it was "really, really nasty."

"Ooh! You didn't tell me you were claimed."

He could only stare up at her uncomprehendingly, brows knitting in confusion. First, he had no idea what she was talking about, and second, even if he did, he didn't know why she'd think he would tell her about it. "I'm sorry, what?"

She clasped her hands to her chest.

"That you've been claimed," she repeated wistfully, stars in her eyes. Was she... was she tearing up? "By a Were. How very lucky of you."

"But I wasn't." He looked around helplessly, trying to find a way to extract himself out of the situation. Claimed? He was starting to panic for some reason and the last thing he wanted was to stay around and listen to what she had to say. He had a very bad feeling about this. "That's not true."

"Yes, it is."

"I haven't been claimed," he griped miserably, as if saying it would make it so.

"I beg to differ. If you don't mind," and with that, she pressed the pad of her index finger right on the spot Derek had bitten him a week and a half ago. There was absolutely no reason why it should have, but it ached like he'd been stung by a hornet or a jellyfish or... or... he had no idea why he was using another animal as an example when clearly it hurt like he'd been bitten by a wolf.

The bite mark had faded, not completely, but enough that it looked nothing more than the slightest of sunburns, just a tad darker than his skin, and he had begun to wear his regular t-shirts again. The ones that didn't make him look like he was trying too hard to be cool and hip.

"I can see it quite clearly, faint as they are. The teeth marks." Tugging out the pencil tucked behind her ear, she traced the line with the tip as one would from point A to point B on a map. "Even in human form, Weres have distinct sets of teeth. There's no room for doubt." She seemed quite solid in her conviction and even said as much. "Trust me, I'm an expert."

"Can... will another werewolf know what this is?" It was Vincent he was thinking of in horror.

"Of course. It's how a Were warns another Were not to touch what belongs to them. Very old school. Very romantic."

 _Shit. Shit. Shit. Fuck._ The panic was lifting him out his chair like a helium balloon. He gave her a beseeching look, asking for help. She frowned.

"Weren't you aware of this? You don't look so happy." Her tone turned stern and censuring. "I cannot emphasize how much of an honor it is to be claimed by a werewolf. Do you realize how many people would kill to be a werewolf's mate?"

No, he didn't know how many people would literally kill to be a werewolf's mate, but he was aware how a large percentage of humans did a number of really stupid things to try to become one. There were psychics who would tell you if being mated to a wolf was in the stars or not. If it turned out you weren't, then there were witch doctors who could brew you a potion or shape you a magic talisman to turn you into one. Business was booming, despite repeated pleas from the council of Weres to stop flushing money down the drain, _because it didn't fucking work that way_. He'd read about a woman in the paper who had killed and eaten a Were mate's heart in hopes that the bond would transfer over to her.

"They are fiercely loyal and protective to the point death, monogamous to the bone, and I have it on good authority that they are excellent lovers, more virile and sensually untamed than humans, able to last longer in bed and... " she leaned in conspiratorially, "on average, their penis is a few inches longer than that of a human male, with the ability to knot adding more thickness to the base and - ,"

Holy fucking nope. She was using too many icky words for him to handle. He started packing his papers and shoveling in his laptop into his bag as fast as he possibly could. "Uh, thank you. For telling me all that."

He paused. "Why are you assuming the Were who claimed me is male?"

She drew herself up indignantly. "I always assume they're male. I don't care what female werewolves do."

Right. Hauling his bag, he ran out of the library. Inside the car, he sat staring limply at the steering wheel, bewildered, unable to believe this was happening to him.

He was there until a man rapped his knuckles on his side of the window and asked him if he was dead.

"You alright in there, kid?"

"No," he croaked. "I'm not. But thank you for asking."

He started the engine and drove off.

 

* * *

 

" _What did you do_?"

The moment he saw Derek walking down the hallway, he had unceremoniously shoved Derek without warning into a random empty room behind him - Laura's room, he now realized - knowing that it was soundproofed enough that no one could hear, either on purpose or by accident. He shut the door firmly and locked it. He whirled around to face Derek, who just stood there, arms at his sides.

"What do you mean?" Derek asked, his cool as a cucumber demeanor further irking Stiles. He had never wanted to punch Derek in the face as much as he did now.

"Do not play dumb with me, Derek Hale," Stiles snapped. He wasn't in the mood. Derek knew what he was talking about. Stiles knew it from the way those too-intelligent eyes were regarding him. "Why am I being told that I was claimed by a Were?"

By a slightly nutty librarian who devoted her life to expanding bestiality smut, of all people? Derek didn't answer.

Stiles clenched his hands into fists. "That time you bit me, was that when you did it?"

Derek hesitated. He seemed to come to a decision. "Yes."

OK. Good. At least he was admitting it and coming clean. It was a start. Not that it solved the predicament any, but it was a start.

Stiles could only gape at the admission, however. He clasped a hand to the side of his head in frustration.

"I don't understand. Why would you do such a thing? It's inexcusable, Derek. Claiming a mate is a sacred ritual for Weres. And only done when you're claiming _an actual mate_. You know that better than I do. You can't go around biting people for the fun of it."

"Fun?" Derek repeated. He turned on Stiles, who took an involuntary step backwards. "You think I bit you, because what? I was bored?"

"Not _bored_. Just... not for the right reason." Stiles released a heavy, unhappy sigh, absently-mindedly rubbing the crook of his neck. He hunched in on himself, at a loss. Did he rage at Derek? Pretend to shrug it off in exasperation? He didn't know how to react. "It can't be permanent, right?"

"If it's not, then I'll make it permanent." And there it was again, that no-longer-a-kid voice that was making an appearance more frequently than Stiles was comfortable with.

Stiles was exhausted all of a sudden, and wanted to put an end to this. It was ridiculous standing here trying to explain to a Were how you weren't supposed to claim someone who wasn't your mate. Derek was a lot of things, but he'd never pegged him to be dense or cruel.

"Derek. I'm only going to say this once. This nonsense needs to stop. It's highly inappropriate, to say the least, and I don't appreciate you making a game out of me."

Derek stared at the floor. He really was beautiful, Stiles thought vaguely, mesmerized by the angle of the strong jaw, the slope of his nose, the golden skin. But what was going on inside that head of his? He was unfathomable.

Then, "Stiles. I love you."

He couldn't remember exactly what happened next. He let out a low, infuriated growl, that much he knew, bursting with the need to slap some sense into him if that's what it took, and then Derek had somehow moved from one side of the room to another, pinning him flat against the wall, mouth on his.

The kiss was different from the last one; before, it had been sweet, like a small, spring flower beginning to bloom after a harsh winter, now it was deep and dangerous as the forest in the middle of a moonless night, and Stiles could feel the wolf inside Derek making its presence known.

"I love you. I love you so much." Hands ran down his arms, gathering him close and Stiles felt like crying.

They had somehow slid to the floor, Derek on top of him, his soft lips kissing Stiles' forehead, the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth. Derek kissed his eyelids, first the right one, then the left. Their breaths mingled, Derek's long lashes pricking his cheeks as Derek bent down, nuzzling him fiercely. "You're mine."

"Derek." He turned his head to the side, fighting to keep his breathing level. His fingers were twisting in Derek's shirt and he made himself let go. He felt like his world was spinning out of control. Derek kept trying to clutch Stiles against his body. "Stop. Stop it."

He had to be careful with what he said next. Derek's pupils were blown and rimmed an electric blue, a hint of fang showing from under his lips, signs that Stiles was essentially dealing with a beast lurking under the skin of a human at the moment. The wooden floors were chilly against his back; above him, Derek blazed like a furnace. There had never been a time when Derek wasn't trim and poised but now he looked feral, he looked... probably like something out of Ms. Kelly's wettest, hottest dreams and Stiles' mouth went dry.

"I'm flattered, I really am," he said, although flattered was not the right word. "But... " He wondered if Derek was in any condition to be reasoned with. He plodded on miserably. "But you're young. And I'm much older than you."

"You're 21, not 40. Even if you were, I don't care."

"It's not just the age difference. You're _young_. I'm not trying to trivialize your feelings but you can't be sure what you want at that age. You think you do, but you can't possibly know."

Derek's voice went soft. "I've wanted you ever since I saw you, Stiles. I smelled you the moment you entered the preserve, riding over to our house with your dad. And when you stepped out of the cruiser to introduce yourself to our family, I knew. I've wanted you ever since then. I'm sorry I claimed you without your consent, but you are mate. It's the only thing I'm sure of."

Stiles' mouth was parted slightly, because _ever since he saw him?_ That had been five years ago. He remembered a young boy examining him with somber hazel-green eyes, a boy who had been as serious as an accountant, merely glancing at the hand Stiles held out for him to shake before turning away. And he had to bite back a hysterical laugh because if what Derek was saying was even remotely true, then, _way to make a good first impression, Derek_.

"Derek. You're engaged to Kate. And you're going to be very happy with her. You think you like me now, but it's only because I'm the boy next door. This is just a high school crush and in another few years you'll look back and laugh to yourself for thinking otherwise."

"No, I won't. That's not what this is. Don't say that."

He tried to kiss Stiles again and Stiles pushed him back hard with both hands. Derek stared at him.

"But it's true. You will. You're going to look at me and wonder " _what the hell was I thinking_ _?_ ""

"Stiles, I - "

He quickly clapped a hand over Derek's mouth before he could say it again. He couldn't stand it. "Derek. That's enough. If you don't stop this right now, I will hand in my notice to your parents and leave within a month."

There was silence. He knew Derek was listening to his heartbeat, for the telltale stutter that would let him know Stiles was lying. His eyes widened in alarm.

"Now get off me," Stiles said in a voice that brooked no argument. He needed to leave before Laura tried to enter and found out that they were locked in here together. He needed to leave before he did something incredibly stupid and would regret.

Derek let him go, lifting his weight off so Stiles could finally sit up and get to his feet. There was a wretched look in his eyes that was a punch to Stiles' gut.

"I won't tell anyone about the bite." _And neither should you. It'll be like it never happened_ , he didn't add. Derek seemed to understand anyway. He was trembling slightly, turned away so he wouldn't have to look at Stiles.

Stiles quickly unlocked the door. And this time, he was the one who left.


	2. Chapter 2

It should have been easy, pretending nothing was wrong. It should have been the easiest thing in the world.

After all, it wasn't as if they had been all chummy and inseparable before. This was _Derek_. They could have gone for weeks without saying a word to each other and no one would have found it odd. And his threat seemed to have been effective; Derek didn't bring up the subject again. He didn't approach Stiles at all, actually, as Stiles had feared he might, making things even easier.

There was only the bite mark to contend with. Stiles himself couldn't see anything special about it - it looked like his skin was giving him a little bit of trouble and nothing more - but if a human like Ms. Kelly knew instantly what it was, then the Weres would as well.

It was over this that Stiles grew paranoid. He purchased packets of extra large bandages with tough adhesive pads and liberally pasted them on as extra precaution. He went back to wearing shirts with high necks. He didn't have many to choose from, so he had to buy a few. And for the first time in his life, he bought a scarf that wasn't knitted wool and meant for winter.

 _Thank you, Derek, for claiming me during the hottest month of the year_ , he thought sourly, wrapping the gauzy scarf firmly around his neck. _Shit, I look so bad in this._

He briefly considered getting a tattoo over the mark, but that was going a bit too far. Or was it? Would it work? No. No. It was going too far.

So really, it was as if nothing had happened, as if nothing had changed. It was easy - as easy as cherry pie, was the way his mom would have said it - to go back to normal, whatever normal had been.

But Stiles would have been lying if he'd said he wasn't affected. It was Derek's eyes that haunted him, the devastated look in them that kept Stiles up at night. He was crushed with guilt over the way he had closed the door behind him without even a backwards glance, feeling as if he'd locked Derek in his own personal prison to battle his demons alone. He went back and forth between knowing he had absolutely done the right thing and berating himself for not handling it better.

Too much of a coward to go back to the house, he began to shun the entire family when he knew they'd be home. He avoiding them like the plague, not even joining them for breakfast or dinner, as he had done at least a few times a week without fail for the past few years. When a concerned Talia finally called to see if everything was alright, they hadn't seen him for some time, he told her that he was busy with a few school assignments, knowing that she wouldn't be able to catch his lie over the phone.

He knew there was nothing mature about the way he was acting, just as he knew that he couldn't dodge Derek forever, but every day he found himself staying away.

But then a few nights later, the inevitable happened. Talia asked him to come over to babysit the kids while the adults were out. Technically, even Cora was old enough to be alone by herself, but about four months ago, after Laura had toppled down an entire wall bookcase while trying to kill a centipede - a bookcase with a built-in aquarium, no less - a fuming Talia had declared her children too dumb and too deficient in the common sense department to go unsupervised.

So at seven he found himself over at the main house, clutching the door handle nervously before letting himself in. Talia greeted him at the door as she was leaving.

"You won't have to stay long. I'm not sure about Hannah and Peter, but Nicky and I will be back in a few hours," Talia apologized as she shrugged on her jacket and pulled her hair out of the back collar. "I'm so sorry for making you come over. I know you've been extremely busy the past week. I wouldn't have called if I knew Vincent was in the house but... I have no idea where my father is most of the time these days."

"Not a problem," Stiles assured her. "Don't worry about it."

"Oh, but it's so nice you're here, though. We haven't seen you in ages." She pulled him close and smacked a kiss on the top of his head, making him realize just how lonely he had been for the past few days. He was just like the wolves in this regard, needing constant physical contact and company. Going without the two, even for a few days, drove him nuts.

She went over the instructions with him. Dinner had been ordered from a nearby Thai restaurant and would be arriving soon, there was enough for him as well, Cora was not allowed to watch any scary movies, Laura was not to use any of the power tools for her crafts project. And as for Derek...

"I'm sure Derek will be his usual well-mannered self," Talia said with fond sternness, glancing at her son. "You're going to stay inside today, aren't you? Yes, I know how you've been sneaking out at night the past week."

Stiles had thought Derek would be up in his room, the way he usually was whenever Stiles came over, but tonight, he was sitting on the bottom steps of the staircase, a hand tightly gripping the iron baluster. He watched silently as Stiles spoke with his mother and saw her out the door.

Stiles felt a strange jolt at seeing him. He offered Derek a hesitant smile as he quickly passed by and went into the family room.

He had barely settled down on the sofa, after warning everyone there was to be no funny business, not on his watch, when Cora skipped over.

"Stiles," she sang. She wanted something from him.

"Yes?" He lowered the book he had been intending to read, finger between the pages as a bookmark, and waited to hear what it was.

"You're coming to the Were Fair this weekend, aren't you?"

He was? This was news to him. "Didn't you have one already?"

"That was for my trip to Paris," Cora said. "This one is for the community. We're raising money for the children's hospital. Here's the flyer with the time and some for info. Laura's participating too."

Stiles deflated as he took the glossy flyer and skimmed it. He had baked 100 cookies to raise money for her trip? He held his tongue. There was nothing he could do about it now.

"I can stop by for an hour or two," he decided out loud. It was for a good cause and it did sound like fun. Werewolf-hosted events were always worth attending.

She clasped her hands together. She was getting down to business, he could tell. What did she want from him this time? "Could you help me out? A bunch of my friends and I got a local store to donate some of their candy. We're selling candy decorations at our booth and I'm in charge of making candy garlands but I don't have the time to do it. Could you please make them for me? Please?"

What on earth was a candy garland? He frowned. "How many are we talking about?"

"A hundred. See, this is what it's supposed to look like." She held out a length of red string with different colored balls of old fashioned candy wrapped in cellophane hanging from it like Christmas tree lights. She waved her arm around it like a magician's assistant. "Seven on every garland, with the colors in the order of the rainbow. Isn't it pretty?"

A hundred? At least with cookies he could just spoon batter on a tray and let the oven do the rest. He could even eat a few when they were done. He liked cookies and he liked baking. This looked like menial labor, pure and simple, one that would keep him up all night. And knowing Cora, the queen of procrastination, she had probably set it aside until the very last moment, briefly went into panic mode, then immediately calmed down after deciding she could solve the problem by foisting it all on him.

"I don't know, this is kind of short notice and - "

"Please. Please. Please," she wheedled.

She was trying to weave her spell on him, which had never failed to work before. Stiles had never been able to resist her puppy eyes and pouting and wobbly lower lip. Why did he have to be so weak when it came to girls? It had been a curse since middle school. "Cora - "

"I really don't have the time to do it. I have so much schoolwork and there's my date with Isaac tomorrow. It's not that hard. You can totally do it. Stiles. Please."

His resolve not to be a doormat cracking, Stiles began grudgingly, "Maybe I could do a few - "

It was then that Derek materialized out of nowhere. He caught his sister's arm and spun her around to face him. "Stop asking him to do things for you."

Cora tried to wrench away but he had her in a vise. Stiles knew from personal experience how strong Derek was. He was half out of his seat, wondering if he needed to intervene. "Ow, Derek, you're hurting me. Let go!"

"If you need something done, do it yourself. He's not your fucking maid."

Cora gave her arm another futile yank. "I never said he was. But he can help out. It's not like he - "

Derek took a step closer, eyes flashing, and she quailed. "Fine. I won't ask him."

After a moment, Derek released her. He turned on his heels and stalked out.

"What the heck is his problem?" Cora complained, rubbing at her wrist as she scowled at his retreating backside. She was trying not to show it but her brother had scared her badly. "Jeepers."

Laura sighed from behind the coffee table where she had spread out her crafts. "Cora. You need to be careful around him."

Cora looked at her sister as if she were speaking a different language. "What? What are you talking about?"

Laura rubbed her forehead, then looked up. Her face was hard as flint. "You really need to get your head out of your ass and start paying attention to the things happening around you. He's volatile and dangerous and I'm warning you, you need to be careful around him right now."

"OK. Got it," Cora said sheepishly, upset at being reprimanded and at how her siblings were suddenly acting. "What is wrong with everyone today?"

Laura wasn't done. She continued in the same unrelenting tone of voice, "And I agree with Derek. Stiles is busy with his own stuff and he's not here to do your work for you. You didn't even properly thank him for baking the cookies, which were for a personal fundraiser. If you're stretched too thin and can't handle it all, drop something. Simple as that."

"I said fine, I'll make them myself," Cora grumbled petulantly. She turned around to leave.

"What did you just call me?" Laura growled, slapping her scissors down on the coffee table, making Stiles automatically lift his butt off the cushion again in case he had to wedge himself between the two. Not that he could actually physically restrain either of them from fighting but they tended to think twice before coming to blows if he got involved.

"Nothing!" Cora squeaked, then dashed off.

The living room was quiet again. Laura seemed to have decided to let it go, after muttering something unsavory of her own that Stiles couldn't catch. She began to measure something with a ruler.

Stiles leaned back on the sofa with the book in hand, blinking in confusion as to what had just happened.

"Uh, thank you?"

Laura gave him a brittle smile before returning her attention downward. Set aside near her elbow, her cell phone started to ring, emitting ESPN's Monday Night Football Theme. She ignored it, not even sparing it a glance.

Stiles wanted to ask what she'd meant by all that - well, not all of it, just the part about Derek - but she didn't appear to be in a forthcoming mood. He also wanted to ask why she wasn't answering her phone, but that too, seemed to be a great way to further piss her off. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

The brass fanfare opening continued to play, making Stiles twitch in annoyance - Gavin was one of those annoyingly tenacious callers that didn't know when to hang up - while Laura resolutely continued to ignore it, until the music abruptly stopped.

In a while the bell chimed and Stiles went to pay the delivery guy. He came back carrying a heavy paper bag, the aroma of lemongrass and garlic wafting out pleasantly.

"I'm not hungry," Laura declined when he told her to come to the table for dinner. She went back to working on her project.

"I'm not hungry!" Cora yelled from the second floor when he called up that the food had arrived. She was still peeved for being scolded. Derek didn't even bother to answer from the deck steps where he was sitting and staring out at nothing.

_What the hell._

Stiles sat there with his book, the food still untouched inside their take-out containers, and waited for someone, anyone, to come home so he could leave.

 

* * *

 

He turned into something of a hobgoblin in the ensuing days. He made it a habit of doing his odd jobs around the house when everyone had long since left in the morning and scurrying out well before it was time for them to arrive.

He checked the fire extinguishers around the house, as well as the smoke and carbon dioxide detectors in each room, something he did diligently and unnecessarily often. The house was a no flame candle zone; the Hales had kindly started using the battery operated variety without being asked so he wouldn't worry constantly that an unattended candle might start a fire. He drove around the preserve perimeters to make sure the protection wards were still in force. Hannah and Peter weren't the only ones expecting and he delivered gifts to the clans on the preserve who recently had newborns.

After all that was taken care of, he went to the utility room to examine the supplies and see if there was anything that needed to be restocked. His gaze fell on the whiteboard, which had been left untouched since the day of his date with Preston.

it has been

 **0** days

since D.H bled all over this floor

He looked at the calendar and quietly changed the number from 0 to 14. His eyebrows went up as the enormity of it hit him. Two entire weeks had passed since Derek had come to him to be treated. It was a huge milestone.

As he worked, doing this and that, he caught himself glancing at the door a few times until he laughed, disgusted at himself. Was he actually hoping to see Derek standing there? Standing there all bruised just so Stiles could have the chance to touch him again?

But the ghost of Derek was there, sitting on the bench, watching him. Stiles had to close his eyes for a long time, trying to ease the dull ache in his chest.

He quickly finished and hurried back to his place.

He was sitting at his desk, rubbing at the crook of his neck - which had become somewhat of an unconscious habit these days - when his phone trilled. He placed it to his ear.

"Stiles?"

"Yes, what is it?" he asked with some concern. Laura never called.

"Could you come over now? I need help with something."

"Sure, of course. I'll be there in a few minutes."

He craned his neck in front of the mirror to paste on a fresh jumbo-sized Band-Aid, quickly tossed on a shirt, buttoning it all the way to the top and flipping his collar up, and decided he was good to go.

Moments later, he stepped inside the house, apprehensive of what he might find. But he was met with the sound of tinkling, feminine laughter drifting from the kitchen. Further investigation revealed Kate and Allison sitting at the informal dining table where the Hales ate most of their meals, talking to Cora.

"Stiles!" Cora greeted him merrily. "Are you joining us for dinner? Laura made a ton of food."

Allison smiled her dimpled, sweet smile at him. He found that he couldn't look Kate in the eyes and mumbled out a hello. He didn't catch the way she looked him up and down in evident distaste.

"How's Gerard doing?" he asked.

"Oh, still blind as a bat," Kate responded. "The doctor's don't know how to fix him."

"Stiles!" Laura bustled around kitchen island. "Yes! You're here!"

Taking him by the arm, she dragged him aside into a corner and shoved him up against a wall. It brought back wonderful memories of high school, when the jocks had pushed him into the lockers and demanded his lunch money.

"What's going on?" Stiles asked suspiciously. "You said you needed help. You better not have called me over to kill a spider."

"I do need help," Laura said in the overly perky manner of a 50s housewife. She was even wearing a frilly apron. "I need you to help us eat all this food I made."

"Huh? What's going on?" he asked again. He didn't understand.

She looked put off. "Nothing is going on. Everyone is out tonight, and completely out of the blue, grandpa told me to cook dinner and invite Kate over. That Derek needs more exposure to her or else he's not going to know 'what to do' on his wedding night and bring shame upon the family or some nonsense."

"I don't think Vincent will appreciate me being here then, if he's trying to set the two up to have a romantic dinner together," he hissed.

"Please. It's not like he'll be chaperoning them. He's going to be upstairs all night, the way he always is these days," Laura hissed back. "Plus, it's not as if he sees you as a threat to Kate and Derek's non-existent relationship."

"But why do you want me here? It doesn't make any sense."

"Look." Laura stamped her foot, something she was explicitly not allowed to do inside the house. Stiles looked at her warningly and she simmered down. He saw her visibly swallowing her frustration. "I have my reasons, OK?"

He was considering using the last weapon in of his arsenal - well, actually, he had just the one: lying through his teeth that he was too busy - when she whipped out hers. The puppy eyes. Dammit.

"Don't go," she cajoled, wringing her hands together. "Stay, just for an hour. Then you can leave. I won't stop you. You can do that much, can't you? And I made your favorite dessert. Brownies. You love brownies. I won't let anyone else touch it. You can have the entire pan to yourself."

He caved in and said grudgingly, "Fine. I mean, fine, I'll stay. I don't want all the brownies."

He glanced at the array of dished lined out on the kitchen counter. She certainly had made a lot of food.

"You guys are going to clog all the toilets in the house tomorrow," Stiles said dispassionately. "Not a salad in sight."

Laura seemed to relax, taking his words as a confirmation that he would stay. She grinned in visible relief. "Give us a break. We're Weres. We can barely tell lettuce and cabbage apart."

Fair enough. After all, the girls could name correctly all the retail cuts for beef, veal, pork and lamb, which was pretty impressive.

"Thank you so much. You don't have to talk to anyone. All you have to do is eat." She herded him to the table where the rest of the girls were sitting and chatting.

She hollered towards the ceiling, making Stiles wince, "Derek! Come on down! Look who's here!"

Derek joined them soon, taking the seat next to Stiles. Neither of them said a word to the other.

Stiles ate quietly, doing everything he could not to look up at Derek and listening to the girls chatter about the upcoming winter formal dance.

"Scott asked me out right away," Allison said proudly. "He's so adorable. He was so nervous, I thought he was going to faint."

"More like pee his pants. He's such a dork," Cora laughed. "We should go dress shopping together. I saw the cutest dress at the mall a few days ago."

"Must be nice to have someone to go with," Kate said. She ran her manicured fingernail along the rim of her glass cup.

There was an awkward silence as she stared pointedly at Derek, who refused to look up from his plate, eating just as quietly as Stiles.

Cora fidgeted slightly but didn't dare utter a word under Laura's fierce glare. If he didn't know any better, Stiles would have thought Laura was doing everything to sabotage Kate's advances towards Derek. She had been spiking them down like balls in a volleyball death match all throughout dinner.

The girls asked excited questions about Laura's future wedding plans. Laura kept telling them she didn't know. _What's your choice of venue? I don't know. Will you have a buffet or sit-down meal? I don't know. What's your theme? I don't know_.

"Humph," Kate sniffed in disapproval. "It's like you don't even want to get married."

"It's not the end of the world if I don't," Laura retorted frostily.

Another awkward silence fell over the dining room as Laura and Kate glowered at each other.

"So, Stiles," a voice said after a moment.

He had been poking at the congealed cheese on his macaroni with his fork and glanced up to see Kate smirking at him flirtatiously. She had been trying to draw Derek in to the conversation all throughout dinner, with extremely depressing results. Now her attention was focused on him. "You look very nice today."

He blinked and reached for his cup of water. He honestly couldn't remember the last time she had spoken to him. He thought he knew what she was trying to do and silently wished her good luck. "Thank you."

"Do you have a girlfriend?" She twirled a strand of her hair around her finger. She had cut her hair since the picnic and it was now a sleek bob that ended along her collarbones.

"No, I don't. I haven't for awhile."

"Stiles likes boys," said Cora helpfully. She was eating raw hamburger patty, daintily slicing it with a fork and knife like she was in a five-star restaurant. "Daddy says Stiles is gayer than a monkey on nitrous oxide."

Stiles grinned into his cup as Allison squealed with laughter. That was such a Nicholas thing to say. He saw Kate opening her mouth and told her before she could ask. "No boyfriend either."

"Do you have someone you like, then?"

"No," he said again.

"You're lying," Kate purred coldly, more with the intention of calling him out on it rather than in an attempt to be playful.

There was a loud _chink_ and they all glanced up. Derek set aside his fork, which had snapped in half.

"Stop prying," Laura said. "It's none of your damn business."

"Do you want to get married?" Allison asked, swiftly trying to diffuse the third wave of awkwardness about to sweep over the table. The tension between the two older girls was starting to have an element of a Mexican standoff to it.

He smiled at Allison. She really was sweet. "Yes, I do. I'm looking very much forward to it."

"Well, so am I." Kate appeared to have rapidly lost interest in him. A man who wasn't into women was useless to her. She returned her attention to Derek. "Mr. Hale has already given me permission to move into the house once I turn 18. He said Derek and I can have one of the upstairs rooms together."

"I can't wait!" Cora said, bouncing a little in excitement. "It's going to be so much fun."

"I'm going to miss you," Allison said sadly. "It'll be so quiet without you around."

Kate impatiently rolled her eyes. "Don't be silly. You're always with Scott. Besides, it's only right that I stay close to my husband."

She preened at Derek, who looked at her, his face unreadable.

"So, you two are going to get married when you're 18?" Cora asked with avid interest.

"Yes, we are. I don't see why not. We have Mr. Hale's blessing."

"Are you going to have babies straight away?"

Kate hesitated then gave Derek another coy smile. "If that's what Derek wants. Mr. Hale says the house is too big and that we need to have as many as we can to increase the pack..."

Stiles' thoughts drifted as she continued to talk about her future plans. Yes, Vincent always had said that. A big pack was a sign of power and virility, according to him. The old wolf wasn't satisfied with the current size and was frequently telling the teenagers they were to have at least five children apiece.

He thought of his mother, and how she had stood in front of the floor-length mirror, turning to the side to see how much her belly had grown, her long skirt swirling around her ankles. How deliriously happy his dad had been. He had gone out with his buddies that following weekend to buy them all a round of drinks and had returned boisterous, the fermented malt smell of beer steeped into his jacket, smooching and bear-hugging everything in sight. And a few months later, everything had gone to hell. Stiles had never again seen his father as happy as he'd been that night.

Children. It was the one thing he could never give Derek.

"...Mr. Hale recommended we go to Greece for our honeymoon. He said it was where Talia was conceived. Can you imagine, getting pregnant on your honeymoon..."

But they could maybe adopt. Maybe Derek would be open to that. It wasn't impossible. His heart grew heavy with longing. He could easily see it in his mind, so tangible that he could almost reach out and touch it.

Spooning and cuddling with in bed with Derek instead of waking up alone. A lazy Saturday morning as he stood making coffee in the kitchen, Derek coming up from behind to wrap strong arms around him and placing a kiss on the nape of his neck, their kids playing out in the lawn, running around with a puppy at their heels.... _and what the fuck was he thinking?_

He shook his head, jerking himself out of his useless reverie, and then suddenly realized the entire dining room of Weres had gone completely still.

"Holy shiitake mushrooms," Cora breathed, scrunching her nose. "Geez, Derek." Her expression was half gleeful, half scandalized.

They were all staring at Derek, who lowered his eyes, his face blank.

Stiles was utterly confused as to what was going on. Had Derek... farted? Though this kind of shocked reaction seemed kind of unnecessarily over-the-top and mean, to be honest, even if the smell was amplified by a hundred for them. He sniffed discreetly. He didn't smell anything.

The girls began to giggle. Cora nudged Kate in the side and Kate's lips curved in a pleased, cat that got the canary smile. Stiles noticed Laura was the only one who wasn't joining in.

Derek stood up and left the dining room and they erupted into another bout of giggles.

 

* * *

 

"Derek?"

Dinner was finally over and the girls had cleared the dishes. Stiles was wiping the crumbs and bits of food off the table with a washcloth when he heard Kate softly call out Derek's name.

Unable to help himself, he inched towards the arched entryway and cautiously peeked out. From this angle, he couldn't see Derek but Kate was at the bottom of the staircase, a slim hand place on the wood handrail. She looked beautiful under the soft glow of the chandelier light.

"Could we talk? Please? We really need to talk."

She noticed Stiles standing there, watching her, and her brows knitted slightly. Stiles quickly averted his gaze and ducked behind the wall, cheeks reddening at being caught eavesdropping.

"In private. Maybe your room?" she asked, still speaking in that soft, coaxing voice.

There was no answer from Derek, but when Stiles lifted his eyes, she was climbing up the staircase. He peeked out again, a little bit more this time, to see the two of them turning the corner of the second floor and disappearing out of sight.

Stiles sank against the wall, feeling like he'd been sucker punched. Derek was actually allowing her inside his room? He scrubbed at his face, then went back into the kitchen on shaky legs.

Laura was in front of the sink, cleaning up. As he watched from behind, she straightened up and raked a hand through her black hair. "Shit. I am so close to killing everything," she muttered.

"Can I help? Not the killing part. The cleaning up part."

Laura wearily began to twist her long hair into a bun to get it out of the way. She expertly slid a chopstick through it. It always amazed Stiles when girls did this; it was like watching magic. How did the stick stay in place? "Yes, please. That would be nice."

Going over to the counter, he began to scrape the food out of the dishes into the sink with the garbage disposal. There wasn't much left. "Why aren't you using the dishwasher?"

"Because I don't feel like it," was her terse response.

He looked at her from the corner of his eye. She looked exhausted. As he watched, she drizzled an insane amount of dish detergent into the water. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, sure. Why wouldn't it be?" Picking up a sponge, she began scrubbing a casserole dish so furiously he was worried she was going to put a hole it in. "Everything is just dandy."

He didn't push the matter. "Why don't you go watch the movie with Cora and Allison? I can get this."

"No. I want to be alone," she said. "And the last thing I want to hear is Cora gushing non-stop over how wonderful Kate is. Wonderful, my furry ass. Pfft. Blond hussy. The way she was all over Derek tonight, after he..." she snorted in derision.

After he what? Stiles wondered where this hostility was coming from. While Laura had never shared Cora's exuberant adoration for Kate Argent, she had never been this belligerent.

The image of Derek walking up the stairs with Kate trailing behind him wouldn't leave his mind. He tried to sound as nonchalant as possible and said, "Derek and Kate make a cute couple."

"Yes, they do look perfect together, don't they?" Laura commented listlessly. "The prom king and queen."

That was as good a description as any. Two beautiful Weres from two wealthy, high-profile families. They were practically royalty. There would be an excited article or two in the gossip column if they got married. When. When they got married.

"Why were they laughing at Derek during dinner?"

Laura sighed, scratching her nose with a sudsy thumb. It looked like a small bubble monster was rising out of the sink. "Derek... was stinky."

Poor kid. He must have been mortified. "You guys are horrible. Flatulence is a natural occurrence of the body. Everyone does it," Stiles said.

Laura sighed again, the sound heavy and irritated. She seemed to be deflating more and more, like a pricked balloon, as the night wore on. "Not that kind of stinky. He was aroused. Really, really aroused. As in _aflame with desire_. My guess is that it had something to do with all that marriage and baby talk."

Oh. Stiles quickly picked up another plate and started wiping it with a cloth. He was dismayed to see his hands were shaking a little. There it was again, flashing behind his eyes. Derek and Kate walking up the stairs together. Going into Derek's room. Had Derek been aroused by Kate that much? He felt sick. What were they doing in there right now? Maybe someone needed to go upstairs and check...

"I saw the way he was looking at you. At the picnic," Laura said, without warning, and Stiles almost dropped the plate he was holding.

"What? I don't know - "

"Yes, you do." Laura seemed determined to bulldoze on, to have her say, to call Stiles out on his bullshit. "I had my suspicions before. He's always been different around you. Nothing that you'd be able to catch. But it was there."

"Laura, I'm not sure... " he trailed off lamely, not knowing how to continue.

She stared out the window into the evening gloom. "I remember the time when you were in the burn unit after the fire. He was a mess. He'd go out to the preserve, just running endlessly in his wolf form until he collapsed from exertion. We had to go looking for him or he would have been out there forever. We couldn't keep him in school, either. He'd just sit there, completely catatonic.

"And during one night, he woke up completely distraught. He'd had a nightmare that your mom had visited you in the hospital and asked you to come with her. And you did. He was crying for you to stay but you took her hand and left, without even looking back once. He didn't sleep for days after that. He still can't handle the sound of the heart monitor flatlining, because that's what he heard in his nightmare."

Stiles could only listen, his mouth parted slightly. He hadn't been aware of any of that. He remembered how he had left Derek alone in the room two weeks ago, not even sparing him a backwards glance.

"I'm sure my parents thought he was in shock over the fragility of human existence or some shit, but I knew better."

She asked with deceptive calmness, "He claimed you, didn't he? That's why you're going around with those bandages on your neck and wearing those ugly shirts all the time."

He couldn't bring himself to answer. He wanted her to stop.

But Laura was relentless. She went in for the kill. Her voice was forlorn as she asked, "Why don't you want him?"

"Laura... please. That's enough."

After that, neither of them said anything for a while, Laura washing the dishes one after the other and Stiles wiping them and setting them aside. There was only the sound of the running water and the clinking of dinnerware.

"He's going to be OK, isn't he?" He asked quietly. He needed to know. All the information on rejected Weres made it seem as if they suffered so much. Most of it read like a collaboration between Ms. Kelly and Stephanie Meyer. He didn't know what was fact and what was fiction. "I mean, he doesn't seem so bad off right now."

To his surprise, Laura let out a shrill bark of laughter, a sound of total disbelief. "Wow. _Wow_. I don't even know what to say to that."

To his further surprise, she whirled on him, water dribbling onto the kitchen tiles. He had never seen her so upset, so furious. She was like a volcano about to erupt.

"Do you really think I called you over here because I wanted you to have a nice home-cooked meal? And how would you know how Derek is? You never show up at the house these days, to avoid him, I'm assuming, and he misses you. He misses you so much and he's fucking depressed, thinking that you hate him.

"It's times like these that I think we'd all be better off if Weres and humans went back to living separately. Why even bother trying to get along? We're obviously too different and we're just wasting time and effort merging the two cultures together. You want to know if he'll be OK? No, he won't be. That's your answer. Are you happy now? Hell, he'd get down on his knees and beg if he thought there was the slightest chance it would change your mind."

She snapped off the rubber gloves and flung them into the sink. "You know what? It's your job to do the dishes. You work for us. That's what you're here for. So you can finish up here by yourself and go home to your sad little wood cabin. Don't let the door hit you on the ass on your way out."

She walked out of the kitchen, clicking off the lights and plunging Stiles in darkness.

 

* * *

 

He slept poorly that night.

Knowing better than to go after Laura when she wanted to be alone, he cleaned up in the kitchen as quickly as he could and went back to his place. His sad little wood cabin.

Her words echoed in his head. How Derek had always wanted him. How Derek missed him.

But once in bed, it was Derek and Kate he kept thinking of. He tossed and turned, unable to stop the mind movie from looping over and over in a seamless replay inside his head. Derek and Kate disappearing down the hallway into his room. Only it kept adding on to what he had seen. Derek closing the door and locking it so no one could bother them. Kate climbing up onto his bed, smiling at him in seductive invitation, the deep swell of her breasts visible over her low-cut neckline. Derek's eyes hooded with lust. It was here that Stiles' treacherous imagination ramped it up from PG-13 into R and he punched miserably at his pillow. He wanted to bleach his brains out. He felt resentful towards Laura for inviting him to dinner, towards Derek for letting Kate into his room, then realized he was the biggest, most selfish, hypocritical jackass to walk the face of the earth.

When morning came, he straggled into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face until his face was numb. His eyes were pink and gritty, as if grains of sand had gotten in behind the lids. He looked horrible, his skin pasty under all his moles.

It was the day of the Were Fair and the last thing he wanted was to go, especially when the side of his head pulsed with a migraine and his heart was heavy as a brick. He wasn't sure he was ready to meet Laura. But he had promised Cora he would be there and she would be so disappointed if he didn't come. He could manage for a few hours. He tossed back two pills of ibuprofen and headed out.

When he arrived, he was glad he hadn't taken his jeep. The streets leading up to the school field where the fair was held was completely clogged and volunteers were directing traffic away from the already full parking lot. It didn't surprise him. Not that he wasn't impressed at the turnout, but humans had always been drawn to Were events and they made up the majority of the onlookers. Curiosity and fascination, he supposed, and the desire to see if they might have a chance of meeting a wolf. Laura was right in a sense; they were different. For humans, werewolves would always be half reality, half myth.

He squeezed his way through the people milling around, squinting at the booth numbers, already worn out and ready to go home. A girl's voice squealed his name amid the hubbub and he turned in its direction to find Cora bouncing up and down joyfully and waving at him from a candy-motif festooned stall. He went over and patiently listened as she showed him every single type of decoration they had made. They weren't bad at all. She'd put her artistic skills to good use.

She clapped her hands ecstatically in rapid succession. "And a woman who's having a candy bar at her wedding bought nearly half of our stuff. We're going to sell everything at this rate!"

Wanting to be supportive, he bought some garlands and then a few other things Cora recommended decorating his cabin with, although he wasn't too sure about the decorating part. It sounded like a really good way to get attacked by a colony of ants.

"Laura's over there!" She pointed into the crowd. "Go check out her booth! Derek's with her too. Mom said he needed more social interaction and kicked him out of the house."

He told her that he would and went in search of Laura, almost tripping on his face when a garland slipped out of the bag and got tangled in his foot.

He found her sitting on a stool by herself in a relatively plain booth behind several chafer pans piled high with dried strips of meat.

"Hey," he said, the exact same time she did. They smiled at each other tentatively and even before she spoke Stiles knew things would be alright between them.

"Listen. I want to apologize about for all the things I said last night. I don't know what came over me. There's no excuse and I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it. You're a good sister and you're looking after Derek. I understand."

For a brief moment, sadness enveloped her features, as if saying _do you really?_ Then it was gone.

"I didn't mean it, when I said humans and Weres didn't belong together. Yes, it's complicated and we don't always understand each other but... you joining our family was one of the best things that could have happened to us. And if you don't reciprocate his feelings, well, Derek will need to learn how to cope with it, I guess. He'll learn how to be happy for you and to watch over you from afar."

"Laura..." he stopped, then simply nodded. He didn't tell her that it would be better this way. Derek would be with Kate, who was more deserving of him, who wasn't damaged goods. A girl around his own age. "Where is Derek? I thought he was with you."

"He's off by himself. He hates people and he hates noise, so probably somewhere without either of those. I don't know what mom thought she'd accomplish by making him come here with me."

Probably a few hours of alone time with her husband, thought Stiles, although he kept that to himself. He was about to buy some of the jerky she was selling when someone called him.

"Hey, Stilinski!"

He turned around at the familiar voice to see Preston standing a few feet away, hands in his jacket pockets.

"Thought it was you. You have a very distinct looking back of the head." Preston approached the booth, grinning his mischievous grin. He really was a great dresser, Stiles couldn't help but notice. "Morning, Laura."

"It's after twelve."

"Good afternoon, then," Preston amended good-naturedly. "What are you selling? Is this jerky?"

Laura gave him a crisp nod. "I actually volunteered to help and this is the booth I ended up in."

Preston squinted at the labels under the chafer pans. "Jackalope? I definitely have to try some of that."

He asked for a pound and sidled closer to Stiles, bumping his shoulder playfully with his own. Laura's eyes flitted anxiously between them as she scooped the jerky into a wax paper bag.

"I stopped by with a few of my buddies. When did you get here?"

Stiles shaded his eyes from the harsh sunlight. The headache he'd woken up with had only gotten worse. "A little while ago. I'm going to leave soon."

"Thanks," Preston said as he took the bag from Laura and paid her. He dropped the change he received into the tip jar set aside on the counter. Laura muttered what might have been a thank you.

"Come with me. Let's go look around," Preston said, hooking an arm around his waist before he could protest. "Bye, Laura!"

Stiles raised his hand in a wave as he was pulled along and Laura watched unhappily as they walked off together.

They moved slowly through the throng of people. It was barely after noon and it was already jam-packed. Preston offered him a strip of jerky and Stiles declined.

"Hey. Good thing I bumped into you. There's an open air concert at the market square next week. I've been meaning to ask you if you're interested. I was hoping to tempt you with three hours of free music and snuggling on a blanket with me."

Stiles sighed. Preston was such a great guy.

"So, what do you think?" Preston asked. "You in?"

Stiles hesitated. "I don't think that's... I'd rather not."

Preston didn't seem at all deterred. "Oh? Sure. Some other time, maybe? Or we could do something else. I'm flexible. I'm easy. I'm very easy."

Despite himself, Stiles smiled at the innuendo. But he shook his head. It had to be said. "I'm sorry. But... no more dates."

Preston stopped in his tracks and tugged on Stiles' shoulder to get him to look at him.

"Hey. Did I do something wrong? I don't understand. I thought we were really hitting it off. I really like you, Stiles."

Stiles looked at his earnest, stricken expression and exhaled. "I heard you talking to Gavin that day." The day Gerard bled from his eyeballs, he didn't add. "About my scars."

Preston sagged in realization. So he did remember. "Stiles. Come on. I was drunk."

 _In vino veritas,_ Stiles thought glumly. "I know you were. And honestly, it's not even the worst thing anyone's ever said about them and you weren't being intentionally mean and maybe - " he laughed self-deprecatingly, "I just need to grow a _thicker_ skin or something but the fact of the matter is, I'm not at the point where I can see the humor in people making fun of it."

His father had died in that fire, trying to save him. It had taken everything away from him in one fiery sweep, not just his dad, but everything he had left of his mother. Albums, mixed cassette tapes from when his parents had been dating, the journal she had written to him every day while she was in the hospital dying, the stuffed teddy bear with a personal voice recorded message telling him how much she loved him. He would never forgive himself for not keeping them in a safe deposit box. The burns were nothing in the grand scheme of things, but he didn't want to be with someone who could even describe them that way. It made him feel damaged.

"Come on, I wasn't making fun - you know what? Sorry. I'm sorry I hurt your feelings." Preston shrugged helplessly, hands in his pockets, making his jacket bunch up at the shoulders. "I shouldn't have said it and I'm very sorry."

His second apology of the day. Stiles nodded. "I know. You're a really great guy, Preston. And I like you too." But nothing was going to happen between them. Preston seemed to get the point.

"Guess I can't handle my alcohol," he joked sadly. "What with the naked guitar playing and verbal diarrhea. Fuck, I really blew it, didn't I?"

He stopped walking. "I know it doesn't let me off the hook, but for what it's worth, I think you're amazing. I really hope you know that." He gave Stiles' arm a brief, sincere squeeze. "I'll see you around, Stilinski."

Stiles watched him disappear into the crowd. So that was it with Preston. It was a good sign he was mostly relieved, wasn't it? He continued on in the opposite direction, deciding that he would leave after about ten minutes or so.

A Were Fair was distinctly different from that of its human counterpart, Stiles had to give them that. It was part farmer's market, part Renaissance fair, part "sell whatever the hell you want, we don't care."

Yes, there were the booths selling the typical items you saw at nearly every fair. Then there was the inevitable weirdness that was the main attraction for humans showing up in droves.

He passed by stalls selling bone knives, small trinkets made with Were teeth and fur, a shriveled claw of some gargantuan animal placed inside a wooden box, glass ornaments, things that might have been either garbage or modern art, powdered wolf testicles.

"Wolf testicles?" Stiles repeated, turning the vial in his hand. He was at an apothecary booth, examining the glass bottles set out on a table.

"Yes," the young woman behind the booth said in a husky voice. Her cuspids were capped gold. When you thought about it, it wasn't that hard to tell a Were and human apart. The Weres looked tougher and rougher and tended to dress a bit like they were extras in Game of Thrones. "It's excellent for your stamina. Works much better than Viagra. Would you like a bottle?"

Oh, man. Did he look like he needed it? He was afraid to ask. "No, thank you."

He was about to leave when he paused, an idea blinking into existence. "Would you happen to have an odor neutralizer? Something that will completely mask my smell for at least 12 hours?"

She shrugged as if it were nothing. "I can concoct one for you right now. I have all the basic ingredients."

He stared at her for a long, agonizing moment, then came to a decision. "Yes, please."

She didn't ask what he needed it for. He waited as she swiftly mixed this and that to a tiny bottle, gave it a shake and handed it to him. It wasn't as pricey as he'd thought it would be. He listened to her instructions on how to use it, which were simple enough, and slipped it inside his bag.

There was a lone flower stall amidst the other craziness and he bought a small bouquet of flowers wrapped in vinyl to take to the cemetery when he visited his parents. His mom had always loved tulips.

He spent a few minutes watching a young female Were hand wrestle four men in succession then moved on.

He had thought he wouldn't end up meeting Derek, but he was wrong. Having had enough excitement for the day, he was passing through the narrow passageway between the wrought iron fence and the back of the school when he heard voices.

Derek was sitting on the steps leading up to the back doors of the school. A Were was crouched in front of him. He was much bigger than Derek. There was another one, almost the same size as the first, leaning against the fence.

"Derek," the Were begged from between his legs, lowering himself to rub his face against Derek's thigh. He inhaled deeply. "Come on. I'll make it good, I promise."

"No. Don't touch me." Derek shoved him off.

"I can make you forget. Just for awhile. Don't you want that?"

"Hey, leave him alone," Stiles said, approaching them hurriedly. "Are they bothering you?"

The Were jumped off the staircase, growling menacingly at the interruption. His face was bumpy and hairy from his half-shift, fangs glinting under the sharp-edged sunlight. Stiles skidded to a halt in his tracks. Holy crap, he was big.

"Who's the housewife?" the Were sneered.

Stiles looked down at himself and cringed inwardly. He supposed with his shopping tote bag of flowers and the wrapped loaf of baguette sticking out, he did look like he was ready to go prep at a kitchen. In France. "I'm his friend and you need to - "

The Were took a step closer. Stiles took an automatic step back.

"Go away," Derek said.

"Oh, OK. Sorry," Stiles said, abashed. "I didn't mean - "

"Not you." Derek's eyes cut to the other boy, making it clear who he was talking to. "Don't even think about it."

Something must have happened, a Were thing that Stiles didn't know about and would never understand, because the gigantic Were cowered slightly, baring his throat. He slinked off with his friend without another word. The whole thing was over so fast that it was almost anticlimactic.

Stiles stood there with the bag slung over his shoulder, blinking in confusion and feeling the need to defend himself. "Talia asked me to buy the baguette. It's not for me. She wants to make bruschetta for dinner. And the flowers are for my mom."

Derek raised his eyebrows at him. He picked up a pebble from the ground and tossed it into the bushes lined up alongside the fence.

"Was that one of your classmates?"

Derek nodded.

"What did he want from you? _Derek_ , what did he want from you?" He was going to get really mad if Derek didn't answer. The sight of the huge Were rubbing against Derek had unsettled him. "Answer me."

"He offered to suck me off."

"Are you serious?" He frowned when Derek just looked at him. Of course Derek was serious. He was always dead serious. "What? Why? Right here? Now? Are you... are you OK? Why would he offer to do that?"

His squawking barrage of questions made Derek glance up at him again.

"Are those the kids who've been giving you trouble?" Stiles asked indignantly. Was he being sexually harassed on top of all that fighting and bullying?

"No, they're not. No one's been giving me any trouble."

"But you..." Stiles stood there, chewing on his lip. Remembered how the Were had bared his throat, a clear display of submission and respect. "Crap, you're so confusing. I can't understand you half the time."

"What's so confusing?" Derek said. He chucked another pebble. The long arms slipping out of his t-shirt sleeves were golden brown and knotted with muscles. And Stiles knew it didn't matter how well Preston groomed himself. In his eyes, Derek would always be more attractive.

Derek stared out into the distance. "You were with Preston," he said, as if reading Stiles' mind.

Stiles was startled for a second, then realized Derek could probably smell the other man on him.

"Yes. It was nothing though. We didn't come together. He was with some friends and I bumped into him." He didn't know why he kept having the urge to explain himself to Derek. "I - there's nothing between us. I'm not going to see him again."

"Has he apologized?"

How did Derek know - "Yes, he has."

"Good."

Stiles didn't know what to make of that single word. It made Derek sound dangerous again, like he had during the picnic.

The tinny white noise of the fair on the other side of the school building drifted towards them.

How was it that just a week and a half ago he could remember feeling so at home - no, like he was finally home - sitting beside Derek on the sofa in the living room. More content than he could remember being in years. And now he was bogged down with guilt and regret, aching to say things that could never be said.

Then again, he did need to say something.

"Derek," Stiles said. "I don't hate you. I don't want you thinking that. I could never hate you."

He had thought this reassurance would comfort Derek a little. But if anything, it seemed to make him even more miserable. "I know."

"Um," Stiles began, shifting from foot to foot. He wanted to shut up, had absolutely no idea why he was about to say what he was about to say, but lunacy overrode all reason and he couldn't help himself from babbling even if his life depended on it, "I know at your age your testosterones are raging out of control and Weres don't carry venereal diseases but you should really practice safe sex. Because if you think about it, babies are kind of a venereal disease. I mean, yes, you want kids with Kate, but you're 16 and that's a bit too young to be a dad, even for a Were. And I really don't think your room in a house full of people is the best place to be having sex with. You know, with Kate. Not that it's any of my business but maybe the smartest option would be abstinence, at least until you're 18. Or maybe 21."

Yes, 21 seemed like a good solid number.

"Stiles?" Derek ground out. He closed his eyes for a long time and then slowly reopened them. He was gripping the edge of the cement step so hard his knuckles were white. "You're right. It is none of your business."

"Oh," Stiles breathed out, stunned. "I didn't - "

"You should go now."

It was a clear dismissal. Wordlessly, Stiles did as he was told.

 

* * *

 

The full moon had arrived once more.

The entire day leading up to the hour, the Weres had been quietly thrumming with anticipation and excitement.

It was a day strictly for family, for pack, partially because it could be dangerous when the wolves weren't in their right minds - or were too much in their right minds, as predators unleashed into the wild - but also because it was a private, sacred affair. Not even Gavin was allowed onto the preserve. Not yet. So Stiles knew what a privilege it was that they were letting him stay inside the pack territory - although it was probably one of the top five reasons why Gavin hated his guts, now that he thought about it - provided he not step outside. And he had no intention to.

He stood at the front door like a hotel bellman bidding farewell to his guests, cheerfully giving them the beauty pageant wave. "Bye! Have fun! Bye!"

Even Hannah dragged her heavy body over to the front door, using Peter as a crutch. Her belly was worrisomely big in Stiles' eyes, although he kept that last part to himself. Peter was not as wise.

"Isn't she gigantic?" He asked gleefully. "Doesn't she look ready to pop?"

"Will you be alright?" Stiles asked, going over to her other side and helping her down the last remaining porch steps.

She bared her fangs in pure animal delight, the lust for the moon already overtaking her. "I can't wait to be out there."

Werewolves weren't the only one affected by the full moon. Many of the supernatural beings drew their powers from the moon when it was at the height of its power. There would be a lot of tree hugging, a lot of drunken revelry. He knew the centaurs had the supernatural equivalent of a frat party. It was going to be crazy out there tonight, that was for sure.

The house was emptying swiftly. The Weres took off their clothes outside the house and then they were shifting, their bodies growing bulkier, skin sprouting dark, glossy fur. They agilely went down on their paws and ran off, disappearing through the trees. Stiles watched their graceful departure with admiration. He could barely pull on his socks in the morning without falling on his face.

Derek was the last to leave. He was calm and unhurried as always, his enthusiasm always never at the level of the others. He might as well as have been coming downstairs to greet a door-to-door salesman.

"Have fun out there. But not too much fun. Stay safe," Stiles said like a mother hen. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Derek wordlessly passed him by. Stiles watched him shift into a black wolf and slowly lope out of sight.

A howling had started somewhere out in the forest and a chorus followed. The haunting sound never failed to send a thrill up his spine, no matter how often he heard it. He sometimes imagined he could tell the howls apart, but according to research, that was strictly impossible for a human to do, unless they were pack.

Now that they were all gone and he was alone in the house, he had plans. This was his once in a month chance. The Weres would spend all night out in the forest and start trailing in early in the morning tomorrow. He had a minimum of 8 hours to himself inside the house and he had no intention of wasting them.

He walked up to the second floor and stood in front of Vincent's office. He plucked out his purchase from the woman at the fair from his pants pocket. It looked like a boring bottle filled with extra virgin olive oil.

OK. He was going to do this.

He slipped out of his shoes and rolled his socks together. Then came off the shirt and jeans until he was standing in only his boxer shorts in the middle of an empty hallway. He carefully folded them and set them on the floor. Odors saturated deeply into fabric and taking his clothes off would be an extra measure of precaution.

He did exactly what the woman had directed him to do, twisting open the cap and using the dropper to apply the oil to his pulse points. _That's all you need_ , she had said, but he went a little overboard and dribbled it in a few more spots, patting it thoroughly onto his skin like it was cologne and some on his scalp. Just to be safe.

When he was done, he sniffed his wrist. The oil didn't impart any particular smell. He hoped it would work. If there was one thing he knew about amateur Were pharmacists was they weren't kidding around when it came to brewing potions. Most of the stuff they sold were legit.

Shit, he was nervous. This was so unprofessional of him. It had so much potential to go bad. If Vincent ever found out, he'd probably be gutted like a fish right on the spot. And even if it wasn't Vincent, even if someone else caught him, he could be accused of stealing, of spying, of invasion of privacy. At best, he could be told to leave and never come back. Because he had no valid excuse as to why he was snooping around the alpha's office while in nothing but his skivvies. Was this worth any of that?

But he couldn't shake it off, the sense of dread that had been clinging to him all along, ever since that day he fell into the lake. The certainty that they were being slowly inched towards the ragged edge of a precipice and when the final push came, sending them all tumbling down to their doom, Vincent would be the cause of it all.

He had never been either explicitly or inexplicitly warned not go inside, so that was a loophole. Taking a deep breath, he turned the handle. It was not locked, just as he had expected, and opened easily. He slipped inside.

The problem was... well, there were several problems. The idea to search Vincent's office had been on pure whim and he didn't know what he was looking for. There had been no premeditation or planning involved. He had no idea where to begin and there was the possibility that even if he was looking at some kind of clue or answer, he wouldn't even know it.

But he had to try.

Stiles noticed that the two marbles were still on Vincent's desk, exactly where Stiles had last placed them. Vincent had upended a whiskey glass over them, like a small glass dome. But they weren't opaque any longer; ribbons of dark gray were swirling through, like ink poured into a cup of milk.

He browsed the shelves quickly. There were a few grimoires, a few bestiaries, a manuscript or two that would sell for a small fortune.

Hidden away in a nook between the tomes was a small figurine of a wolf carved out of a block of salt. The wolf's head was bowed down, its nose almost touching the shelf. It looked like a paperweight, but Stiles knew better. An ancient way of asking for forgiveness and transferring any subsequent punishment and curses that would befall on the perpetrator due to the misdeed onto the salt wolf.

It was very old, the surface smudged with fingerprints and smooth from years of continual rubbing. The sight of it made Stiles rub his lips nervously. If Vincent felt the need for this, it only meant one thing: he had done something really bad.

He poked around some more. He was glad there weren't any mirrors or reflective surfaces in the room, fully aware how stupid he must have looked walking around in his underwear.

He found a plain wood box tucked away to the side on the window ledge. It reminded him of the one where he had kept his mother's mementos after she passed away. He carefully eased open the lid. There wasn't much inside. A simple silver banded ring with a small gemstone. A single photograph.

The picture was old and faded, the edges worn, and it was taken a very long time ago. While the focus was steady, the frame was slightly off, tilted to the side as if the person behind the camera was holding it unsteadily. It had captured a woman with a delicate, elfin face. Her skin was fair, her hair silvery white. Obviously not human. The background looked as if it had been taken out in the preserve. She must have been one of Vincent's relatives. Although they didn't bear any resemblance, they had identical sapphire-blue eyes. Stiles wondered who she was. She was looking into the camera with so much love and joy, her lips parted slightly in a laugh.

Half an hour later, Stiles admitted defeat. He was unwilling to rifle through Vincent's desk drawers and there was nothing else to find. The books here were far more detailed than the ones in the library or anything he had found online, with page after page devoted to individual entities the writers had come across. But there was nothing about the woman in the lake. No clues that could direct him further.

He double checked to make sure everything was just the way it had been before. Then, downtrodden and feeling like he'd done something against his morals with nothing to show for it, he put his clothes back on and went downstairs. The tall grandfather clock told him it was nearing midnight.

He hadn't been aware of it, but the moment he saw the refrigerator, he realized he was starving. His stomach growled like a wolf was trapped inside.

He heated up and ate a chunk of meatloaf at the kitchen island while mulling things over. Why had Gerard been struck by blindness during the picnic? And why only Gerard? How was he connected to all of this? Stiles was stumped. He didn't have much to go on. Was another trip to the lake in order? But would that even help? His brain was generating too many questions.

He was pouring himself some orange juice when he froze, the carton poised over the cup.

There was a knock at the door.

No one that wasn't pack was supposed to be on the preserve tonight. And the Hales wouldn't have bothered to knock. He licked his lips, afraid for some reason. He wished whoever was on the opposite side of the door would just go away.

But no, it came again, a slow rap against the solid wooden surface.

"Vincent." A woman called out.

Gooseflesh rose on his arms. Was it Yumie? He didn't think it was. Yumie had never sounded this... eerie.

As quietly as he could manage, he padded out into the foyer. Even if it was her, what was she doing here, tonight of all nights? He instinctively glanced down to check if it the door was locked. He opened his mouth to tell her, whoever she was, that Vincent wasn't at home right now when -

"I want my eyes back, Vincent."

A chill ran down his spine and he took a few stumbling steps back.

Holy shit. He was safe inside, right? The house was practically a fortress. Fuck, why did he have to be home alone the one night an eyeless monster came calling? He licked his lips nervously.

He was standing there, wondering just how stupid it would be on a scale of 1 to 10 to try to start up a Q&A session with her through the door when there was a horrific creak and a crash.

The solid wood panel doors weren't slammed open so much as they were torn apart from its hinges and flung forward. Not from the force of the wind, but rather as if a huge column of water had rammed into the wood. Water flooded through the no longer blocked entrance, rushing up along Stiles' bare feet - he had forgotten to put his socks and sneakers back on - like he was standing on the shore at a beach.

A lithe form stood there. Her feet were a few inches off the ground.

Stiles didn't even stop to look. He spun on his heels and ran, feet slapping wetly on the wood floor, trying his best not to lose his balance and slip; he knew all too well the dizzying, air-sucking pain that came from smacking his chest onto the swimming pool tiles. He yanked aside the veranda doors in the living room. He teetered out, panting in fear, desperately trying to figure out what to do next, where to go.

"Vincent."

He whirled around and she was there. She sounded angry this time. Stronger. And it hit him. It was her, the woman in the photograph. The woman in the lake. They were one and the same. He didn't need to go to the lake after all; the lake had come to him.

No wonder he hadn't recognized her. If she had been pale in the photo, now she was white as a cadaver. Any trace of joy emanating from her beautiful face had been replaced with anger. Her eyes were still shut and Stiles desperately hoped she wouldn't open them. He wasn't prepared to see what was behind those blue veined lids. But even more grotesque than her eyes, there was a gaping cavity in her chest, as if someone had scooped out a portion of it. A mist-colored heart was beating inside the hole.

She glided forward and he tripped onto the dirt. He flipped around onto his back, propping himself up with his elbows. "Give them back to me."

Her voice was equal parts melodious and creepy, like the wind blowing through a reed instrument hanging from an abandoned house.

"I don't have them. I don't have your eyes! I swear I don't. Why would I have them?" he babbled as she descended. She was so cold. It was like a block of dry ice being lowered down on him. She paused.

"You're not Vincent." Despite no change in her expression, her confusion was evident. A hand brushed against his cheek and tilted his face from side to side.

"No, I'm not. I'm not him. You have the wrong guy," he stammered out. "Look - I mean, I know you can't see, but I'm not Vincent!"

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a dark shape, sleek and lean and huge, catapulting towards them.

Whatever the woman was, she was not incorporeal. A wolf barreled into her sideways, taking her off Stiles' prone body. The two tumbled off to the side and Stiles scrambled up, shivering, scared, dirt getting in under his fingernails as he clawed himself away. The front of his clothes was wet from her pressing down on him.

Or maybe she was. Now that she wasn't caught off guard, she simply drifted off of Derek, leaving him sopping wet, snapping his jaws at thin air. When he swung an arm at her, it passed through her torso with only a loud sloshing sound.

"Derek. Don't. Don't go near her. You don't know what you're dealing with," Stiles ordered with chattering teeth, trying to keep Derek from charging forward.

Derek was wild, baring his sharp fangs ferociously, eyes glowing like twin lights out in a dark sea. He had an arm out like a barrier, keeping Stiles behind him. Which was all very thoughtful and chivalrous and shit, but she wasn't someone Derek could fight.

"Derek! I said don't go near her!" Stiles shouted angrily, clinging to Derek's shoulders and yanking him back with all his might. While plenty of things scared him, no one aggravated him like Derek Hale. "Derek! She's not trying to hurt me! I want to talk to her!"

He was about to tell her to be more specific about the eyes part, and he would really appreciate it if she could stop being so cryptic and mysterious for one flipping second and just _communicate_ , _communication was key_ , when she lifted her arms up over her head -

_Oh no, what is she going to do now, this can't be good_

\- and struck them downwards.

A little brown whorl appeared on the grass. At first Stiles thought she had summoned a portal to another dimension, but no, it was the grass turning dry and brown. It started at the Hale house, as if it were the heart releasing toxic blood through the veins, then slowly, gaining speed, the disease began to spiral outwards. It spread and spread, killing off all the plants, passing under both Derek and Stiles' feet as they gaped in horror. It continued to flow out steadily, swiftly, rising up into the trees and passing through the bushes until the entire forest was a vast monochrome of brown. The dirt under the dead grass began to crack.

And it must have finally reached the other Hales far away, wherever they were. The distressed, frightened howling started, one by one.

Stiles was standing there, too dazed to do anything but gawk with his mouth hanging open, when he felt the rush of cold air against his skin. She leaned down to whisper in his ear. "Tell him I want back what's mine. He's running out of time."

And with that, she vanished.

 

* * *

 

A somberness had befallen the house.

The forest was completely dead, shriveled up beyond repair. It looked like land after a ten-year drought, every drop of moisture completely baked out of the ground. Not a single tree or shrub or flower had been spared. All the plants inside the house were gone as well and Stiles helped move out the pots and vases into the back of the yard. To make things worse, they discovered that the water running out of all the faucets were septic and gloppy with scum and dead insect larvae.

Vincent's three horses had been afflicted with blindness, just as Gerard had been. Their frightened neighing had echoed out all throughout the night. Now they stood silent in their stalls.

The girls were frightened, keeping inside the house, demanding that the curtains and blinds be drawn at all times. They didn't want to see the world outside the windows. As for Derek... well, Stiles had no idea what he was thinking, as usual.

Vincent forbade Stiles from speaking to anyone, shoving him roughly into his study and demanding to know exactly what had happened, threatening him that there would be hell to pay if Stiles so much as let out a peep. He was on edge and Stiles wondered if the old wolf was descending into insanity. At least he didn't get called out on his trespassing stint, so that was good.

Vincent refused to explain to any of them what was going on. But he knew. Stiles knew he knew.

The other adults consulted one another in hushed voices. They discussed Hannah and whether it would be better for her to be put up in a hotel until this was all over. Whether it was secure for the kids to stay. Who knew what would happen next?

Their basic instincts to stay and protect their territory warred with the logic to flee out of harm's way.

Talia ordered Stiles to come inside the house and stay in the guestroom until it all ended, so they could at least keep an eye on him. He didn't bother to argue, stuffing all he needed into a duffel bag and protesting loudly that he could carry it as Derek ignored him and carried it upstairs.

"This isn't the guest room, Derek," Stiles said, glancing around in confusion. Derek had lugged his bag into the room next to his own bedroom. It had once been the children's playroom. A large dollhouse was set against a wall on which a mural of a fat cartoon tree was painted, cute cartoon rodents and birds scampering around on its boughs. "There isn't even a bed in here. Where are you going? Derek!"

He waited and five minutes later, Derek was hauling in a single-sized mattress tucked under his arm like it was a surfboard.

He slapped it down onto the floor and tossed a blanket on top of it. He then left without a word.

Stiles sighed, knowing he needed to choose his battles wisely.

He organized his stuff the best he could in the little amount of space available, pushing aside the baskets brimming with stuffed animals and stacks of puzzles and science kits.

When he was done, he lowered the blinds after one last look outside and then curled on top of the mattress Derek had brought him. He cocooned himself up tight in the blanket, still feeling the icy fingers scraping at his cheek.

The constellations had been painted on the ceiling with glow-in-the-dark paint and his eyes traced the lines connecting the luminous stars.

He thought of all the events that had occurred since the day of the lake to this evening. How she had accused Vincent of stealing her eyes.

 _Her eyes,_ of all things. It wasn't like he'd taken off with her wallet. But if what she was saying was true, where was Vincent even keeping them?

Stiles gave up. It was late and he was exhausted. He would deal with it tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

He was doodling mindlessly on a sheet of paper when Laura popped her head in.

"Is this a bad time? Oh my goodness, look at you," she started laughing when she saw him at the round child-size table hunched on a child-size chair, crayon in hand. "This is where Derek set you up?"

Stiles sighed morosely, feeling like he was at a day care center being used as a refugee camp, living out of his duffel bag. "I had no say in the matter. What's up?"

"He wants you close by, doesn't he?" Still chuckling, she settled down on the floor, her back against the wall, folding her legs in a pretzel. She held up a bottle of moscato. "Want to share? Mediocre stuff but I like the taste. "

She patted the floor beside her. There really wasn't a legal drinking age for Weres since alcohol was no more harmful than juice. Yes, he could get drunk, but at this point, he didn't really mind if he did. Getting drunk had been a long time coming in this entire mess. He glanced at the wall clock and then threw caution to the wind. So what if it was in the middle of the afternoon?

"Why not," he decided, then settled down beside her. He thought she might have brought along a wine glass or a cup but she simply uncorked the bottle and gave it to him.

"Don't want any dirty dishes to wash."

Right. The water was still messed up. Peter and Nicholas had borrowed two huge vans from some friends and bought gallons and gallons of bottled water from the store. They had also bought some disposable cups and plates but the Hales were against creating too much waste.

Stiles tilted his head back and drank, the sweet floral taste bubbling down his throat. He handed the bottle to her. She guzzled it until her cheeks puffed up like a chipmunk's. This was probably the least refined way ever to drink wine, sitting like a bunch of hobos and drinking straight from the bottle.

He waited until she gulped her mouthful down then asked, "Why are we drinking this?"

She drummed her thumbs against the side of the bottle. "I broke up with Gavin. I haven't told anyone yet. You're the first."

"Sorry to hear that. Why?"

"I don't want to deal with their fussing," she said simply.

"No, I mean, why did you break up?"

Laura harrumphed then took another huge gulp of wine. "He wasn't meeting my needs."

"Your... sexual needs?" Stiles said warily. While he was willing to lend a sympathetic ear, she was like a sister to him and he really didn't relish the thought of listening to her vent at length about how she found Gavin lacking in bed.

"No. My need to have a decent human being for a significant other. Or a decent werewolf. Whichever. He's kind of a fucking dickhead."

Stiles kept his mouth shut although, yes, Gavin was indeed a fucking dickhead.

"He's great at putting on this second face and showing the world that he's this absolute sweetheart, but little things get through, you know? The way he treats people, the things that slip out of his mouth. The way I can hear his heart each time he lies. He either thinks I'm so gone on him that I don't care or that he can dupe me.

"Plus I started getting the feeling that he was more interested in the bite rather than in me. Like our entire relationship was obligatory foreplay to the actual thing he wanted, turning into a werewolf. It was the only thing he would ever talk about. How cool it would be. How it would turn him into this firefighting superhero."

"How did he take it?"

Laura lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "I was really nice about it but he's never been dumped before, so I think it was kind of a shocker. He pleaded with me at first, saying he'd change, he'd do anything to keep me. Then he kept saying I couldn't "do this to him" and called me a cunt and a whole bunch of other nasty stuff. Then he said he couldn't live without me. So I told him to die."

Stiles couldn't help it. He burst out laughing. He was light-headed and starting to get a little tipsy. The alcohol burned pleasantly in his body. He took the bottle she passed him but didn't take another sip.

"I'm so sorry," he said, trying unsuccessfully to tamp down his giggles. He wished he'd been there to see Gavin's face while all this was going on.

She laughed along with him. "Don't be. It's the best 180 pounds I've ever lost. I mean, you call me a cunt, there's no going back after that. He's so stupid.

They giggled together for a little bit more until everything stopped being funny and they sat still against the wall, both of them lost in their own thoughts. He glanced up when she spoke again with another sigh.

"I am suddenly learning at a very fast pace that life is not a fairy tale and that growing up and trying to make mature decisions that will hopefully impact my future in a positive way is not as fun as I thought it would be. I thought it would get easier as I got older, when it's actually the opposite. I feel lied to. "

She leaned her head against his shoulder and they both stared glumly at the wall in front of them.

"You want to know something?"

"What?"

"I knew Gavin wasn't my mate, right from the start. They talk about this feeling you get when you first meet your mate. How they pull you in, the way the moon does. How it's so irresistible you can't even think of anything else. I never had that with him. But I didn't care, I liked him too much."

He knew it was the case sometimes. Weres didn't always wait around to meet their mates. Sometimes two people deeply in love made it work, no matter what, through sheer dedication and sacrifice and hard work. The way it needed to be in every relationship.

"And I was OK with that. I still am. He doesn't have to be my _mate mate_. But he has to love me. And respect me." She added in wry amusement, "He has to look at me the way Derek looks at you."

Stiles kept silent.

"Can I see the bite? Please? Just a peek."

He nodded and kept still as she tugged down his shirt collar.

She let out a sloppy giggle. "Wow, that is so hot. Stiles, you have no idea how hot that is. He really claimed you good."

"Stop. He's your brother." He nudged her sternly. "And stop acting drunk."

She did so immediately, sitting up straight, alert. She tilted his head down roughly, making him grimace. "Stiles. What is this?"

"What's what?"

"When did you get a tattoo?" she asked sharply.

"What? I didn't." His hand went to where she was pulling at his skin on the back of his neck. "Of course I didn't."

"What is this, then? I've never seen anything like it. Here, let me take a photo for you."

She grabbed his cell phone and fiddled with it for a few seconds, getting to the camera app. There was a click and then she was showing it to him. They peered at it together.

It was a small square outlined in red. It looked like one of those readmission stamps they stamped onto people's hands at nightclubs. There were broad strokes making up what might have been letters inside. It meant nothing to Stiles.

"You didn't do this?"

Great. Another mark on his neck that he hadn't asked for. "No. I have no idea what this is."

He set the bottle of wine aside. His buzz was evaporating rapidly, replaced by that familiar dread that he had been wearing like a heavy winter coat ever since this all started. This was something that should not have been on his body. When and how had it even got there? He tried hard not to let his unease show but Laura picked up on it immediately.

"Stiles. What's going on?" she asked in a small voice. She sounded like the scared little girl he had read to during a thunderstorm so many years ago. "First Gerard, then the preserve. Now this. I don't understand what's happening. I've never felt so unsafe before in my life."

She leaned into him. He wrapped an arm around her and gave her a hug.

"Something's going on, right under our noses, and we have no idea what it is. You feel it too, don't you?" Then, she said the very words that had been stuck in his head like a bad song for quite some time now, "Something bad is going to happen."

He didn't know how to answer her.

 

* * *

 

He had been out on some errands, first to the herbal shop where he got into an argument with the stoned vampire-wannabe behind the counter, then the bakery to place a custom order cake for Cora's upcoming birthday. He wanted it to be special, special enough that she could forget all the crumminess happening around them, if only for a while. He decided to go with a red velvet cake shaped like a crown roast of meat. Cora would like that. The cake designer said they would use pretzel sticks for the bones.

He hadn't taken the jeep, wanting to stay out of the house, where it was gloomy as a crypt with all the blinds and curtains drawn and where brown muck plopped out from the faucets, for as long as possible.

The afternoon was pleasant, the sun dipping low over the town square and tinting the underside of the puffy clouds a coral pink. He could hear the strumming of a guitar drifting over from the outdoor concert Preston had invited him to.

He was walking along the sideway when a sedan slid up next to him and honked. The driver's side window rolled down and Peter lowered his sunglasses to give him a lewd wink. "Hey, there, gorgeous. Need a lift?"

Peter always gave it his all when going for creepy and Stiles actually felt a bit dirty. "Ugh," he replied.

Nicholas was sitting in the passenger's seat and he leaned around his brother-in-law to smile at Stiles. "Hop in if you need a ride back home."

Stiles had intended to stop by at the new bubble tea place around the corner and sit around and just chill, but then scrapped the thought. The place would be packed at this hour and he didn't want to wait in line for twenty minutes for the chance to choke on a tapioca ball.

He gracelessly scrambled into the car, the plastic bags banging around his knees. Peter took off and Stiles clutched the handlebar above him. Peter was the best and worst driver in the world.

It was nice to sit there and gaze out the window as the town scenery passed by. How long had it been since he'd let someone else take the wheel and do the driving while he sat in the backseat? It was relaxing, letting go of charge. There was probably a really useful metaphor for life in there somewhere, if he could be bothered to take the time to dwell on it, but he was too lazy and tired.

They stopped at a red light and Stiles saw to his right the last restaurant he had gone to with both his parents. An Italian restaurant with the best garlic breadsticks. They had been seated on the outside patio under the shade of a huge umbrella. He had knocked over a glass of soda. His mother had been wearing fuchsia lipstick and his father couldn't stop looking at her.

Fragments. All he could remember were fragments.

It was amazing how he was losing bits and pieces of them, even while he tried to hold on desperately. Some nights he lay in bed, paralyzed with fear that he wasn't remembering his mother's face correctly, that the one smiling at him inside his mind was something his brain had fabricated in an attempt to replace the features and details that he'd long since forgotten and was actually the face of a complete stranger.

He saw Peter watching him from the rearview mirror and he shifted uneasily, immediately trying to think happier thoughts. He was getting so maudlin these days.

The car began to bump slightly as it traveled up the winding, dirt path up to the house. The Hales liked to keep the landscape as natural and untouched as possible and for first time visitors, it could be a little disconcerting to see a huge house looming smack dab in the middle of the dark forest.

"What is that noise?" Peter said abruptly. He had gone still, gripping the steering wheel. Stiles didn't hear anything. Beside him, Nicholas went tense in a similar manner. "Is someone screaming?"

"Fucking hell!" Peter cursed, plunging his foot down on the brake as something hit the side of the car. Cora.

"Daddy!" she screamed, pounding her palms against the window. She was hysterical, wisps of hair stuck to her tear stained cheeks. "Daddy! Help!"

"Cora, get out of the way so I can - " Nicholas pushed the door open and leapt out of the car before Peter could turn off the engine. "What is it?"

"Come quick. Grandpa. He's - he's - "

He clutched her tight. "Cora. Calm down. What's the matter with Vincent? Is he ill?"

"He's going to kill Derek!" she shrieked.

"What?" Nicholas said, face going white. "What did you say?"

Stiles fumbled with the door handle, fingers stiff with fear, listening to her begging her dad and Peter to hurry. He saw in horror that there was a stripe of something red on her bare arm.

"He won't stop beating him and there's so much blood! Do something!"

Blood. Stiles felt sick.

Nicholas was already running into the house, streaking through so fast that he was a motion blur. Peter was out too. None of them had bothered to shut the car doors.

"Tell me what happened and tell me quick." Peter gripped his niece by the elbow and hurried her inside, Stiles stumbling after them like a zombie. "Breath, Cora."

She was crying so hard it was difficult to understand her. "Derek told Grandpa he wasn't going to marry Kate because he was in love with someone else. And grandpa got really mad. He kept demanding to know who it was but Derek refused to tell him. That's all I know."

Someone must have flung a door wide open just then because he could hear shouting upstairs. Vincent roaring. Nicholas screaming at his father-in-law to stop.

"Stay with her." Peter darted upstairs before Stiles could respond, leaving the two of them behind.

"Cora, come here." He reached out and gathered her in a hug. She was trembling like a leaf in a storm, letting out gulping little whimpers through her tears. "It'll be alright."

"Laura's trying to hold him back but she can't stop him," Cora fretted. "He's an alpha. No one can stop him."

She rested her head against his shoulder. "There was so much blood," she mumbled again, gnawing at her thumb, her eyes lackluster and distant. "Derek's going to end up in a coffin."

Stiles held her close to him, listening to the commotion upstairs, nauseous with fear. He wondered if it was a good thing or a bad thing that Talia and Hannah weren't here. Did he need to call them? Did he need to call the police or 911?

There was another shout. Something crashed and splintered apart and Cora moaned. Before he could stop her, she pushed him away and tore up the stairs.

"Cora!" Stiles chased after her. But she was too fast for him and he came to a halt behind her at the doorframe of Vincent's office. The door was swinging wide open and he took a disbelieving step inside.

Laura was braced against the wall to keep herself up, quivering with exertion and fear and shock. She had taken a few strikes while trying to protect her brother and there was a deep welt going across her upper chest.

Nicholas stood between Vincent and Derek like a shield, watching Vincent's movements, waiting to see what he would do next. He hadn't shifted - it was useless, really, any effort was useless against an alpha like Vincent and shifting would only serve to further provoke him, who's wolf would see it as a direct challenge - but the tight line of Nicholas' mouth and the resolve in his eyes indicated that he would die fighting his father-in-law if it came to that. Peter stood a few steps behind him, ready to attack as well. There was a horrible dread in the room, everyone aware that Vincent could kill them all if that was what he intended to do.

And Derek...

Even in his anger, Vincent had reined himself in, knowing he could kill his grandson with one blow. Small mercies. The battering had still been savage, brutal, alternating between fists and the wooden walking stick. The front of Derek's shirt had turned into a bib of dark, wet brown. He was huddled on the floor, coughing up blood. He must have tried to block the hits with his right arm; it was all wrong, dented, bone showing through a chunk of pulpy, flapping skin. He was straining to breathe, letting out a pained wheezing and Stiles knew some of his ribs had to be broken. The wall behind him was splattered red.

The appearance of his youngest granddaughter had snapped Vincent out of his rage. Satisfied that he had made his point, he imperiously slid down into his leather armchair and flicked the blood off his walking stick. He looked like a tyrant on a throne; all he was missing was a crown set upon the white-haired head. His face was hard and contemptuous, utterly sure of his power. What were they but ants compared to him?

"You will marry Kate. As for this mate of yours, forget her. Forget she exists." The unspoken promise of what he would do if Derek disobeyed was horrible to hear. "It's up to you."

Stiles saw that the two stones inside the overturned cup of whiskey had turned completely black.

"Get out. The lot of you," Vincent said dismissively, as if he were annoyed by the sight before him. "Take him to the hospital if you feel it's necessary. And someone wipe up that mess."

Derek tried to stand and collapsed, clutching his arm. It was covered in so much blood that it looked like he was wearing a red satin glove that came to his elbow. Nicholas bent down to help him up.

He hooked Derek's relatively unharmed arm around his neck and held him by the waist, supporting most of Derek's weight and letting Derek use him as a crutch. He was already leeching out the pain and the veins in his hands were black. They walked out into the corridor. Stiles gently took a hold of Cora and trailed downstairs behind the rest of the others.

"This way." Nicholas half-carried Derek into the kitchen.

"Can you sit down?" He lowered Derek onto the nearest stool, careful not to jostle him and add to the agony he must have been in. Blood matted Derek's hair and the right side of his face was mangled. One of his eyes was completely shut.

"He needs to go to the emergency room," Laura said feebly. She went to sit over on a chair, collapsing into it as if her legs weren't able to support her any longer.

She took a folded towel Peter offered her and pressed it against her chest. Nicholas had a towel in his own hands but he was clueless as to where to even begin to staunch the blood, when Derek's entire torso and side of his head was one huge open wound.

Peter reached for Derek, placing his hand on a shoulder. "And tell them what? He fell down the stairs? Banged into a door? Even if we tell them Derek was in a brawl on the street there has to be a police report filed. And there are wolves on the task force. They'll immediately know we're lying.

"So be it. I'm not protecting that man," Nicholas said.

"I don't want the hospital. I'm not going," Derek managed to say. He was shuddering uncontrollably, clutching his arm. He glanced up through eyelashes that were clumped with drops of blood, searching the room.

"I'll call Bennie." Peter took out his phone. Even as he spoke, he kept a hand in contact with Derek, and lines of black ran up his arm.

"That pseudo doctor of yours? Whose hands shake so much they're like the seismic needle charting a major earthquake? If he doesn't keel over once we take away his homemade rotgut brew," Nicholas said, "then, yes, maybe he'll be of some use."

"There's nothing else to be done. He can at least give Derek some horse tranqs. That'll take the edge off the pain, at the very least. We can only do so much for this kind of damage. I'm calling him."

"It's going to be OK, buddy. You're going to be fine." Nicholas sank down in front of his son, who looked up, baleful and defiant.

"I'm not marrying her. I've already told Kate."

"Alright. We'll talk about that later." Nicholas spoke in a low volume, apprehensive that Vincent might overhear and his anger be re-stoked.

"There's nothing to talk about!"

"Shh. Shh. You're right. But let's put you back together first, OK? No one's going to make you do anything you don't want to do. That I promise you." Nicholas wiped Derek's chin and smiled with false cheerfulness. "You've found your mate. That's huge. That's a big deal. I'm so happy for you. I can't wait to meet her. Derek, _you can be with her_. I promise."

For a second, it looked as if Derek might cry. He shook his head helplessly. "No, I can't."

"Oh," Nicholas said in dismay, slowly understanding what his son wasn't telling him. That he had been rejected. "Well, uh. We'll figure it out. It's going to be alright. Everything's going to be fine."

"Where are you going?" Derek suddenly asked and Stiles halted.

"Nowhere. I'm not going anywhere," Stiles mumbled. He pressed himself flatter against the wall, tucking his badly shaking hands behind his back. He wanted to kill Vincent. He wanted to take Derek in his arms and comfort him, to weep over him and cover him with tears, to shake him for being so reckless. His emotions were in a turmoil. Hadn't this been exactly what he'd been fearing all along, the violent reaction of an authoritarian alpha who was so used to getting his way that he wouldn't allow anyone to tell him no?

"Bennie said he'll be over as fast as he can." Peter slipped the phone back into his pocket and returned his other hand to rest on Derek.

"What am I going to tell Talia?" Nicholas whispered hoarsely.

"The truth." Peter replied simply. "That it's high time the Hale pack has a new alpha."

He calmly met Nicholas' sharp glance.

Cora's eyes darted between the two men with sickening anxiety. Her breathing was starting to become ragged again and Stiles quickly rubbed circles into her back. Laura only looked resolute, as if she too saw only one way out of this.

Each of them lost in their own dark thoughts, they waited for the doctor to arrive.

 

* * *

 

"I will never forgive him for this."

The clock ticked loudly in the silent room. Talia stood in front of the window, staring restlessly out into the night. Stiles could only imagine the murderous thoughts that were unfolding inside her head.

" _Take him to the hospital if you feel it's necessary? Wipe up the mess?_ " she repeated in disbelief, clenching her hands into tight fists. "After what he did to Derek, that's all he had to say?"

Nicholas stood beside her, trying to provide solace to his wife, trying to get her to keep her voice down. She pushed him away angrily.

Bennie had come and gone. He was a hoary, wiry old man whose nose had been broken twice and was pushed far to the left, with a gravelly voice that seemed to be dredged up from the broken pieces of alcohol bottles he had consumed with abandon over the years each time he spoke. It was painful to listen to him speak. Luckily, he wasn't much of a talker.

He had been a great surgeon once upon a time, with politicians and celebrities being among his clientele. Now, it was a different story altogether. He owed Peter a few debts, although which kind of debt Stiles didn't know and didn't particularly care to know, and came soon enough, haphazardly parking a rusting car diagonally in the driveway. His skill was still there, though, apparent in the way he expertly stitched Derek up, not a single tremor in his hands as Nicholas had feared.

Derek sat mute and motionless as he was examined. If he was in any pain, he didn't show it. From time to time his eyes would flicker to where Stiles stood against the wall, making sure that he was still there.

Stiles knew Weres didn't like doctors or hospitals, preferring to tough it out as their accelerated healing took care of things. But he was glad Bennie had been called. Wounds left by an alpha wolf were less easy to recover from, and Derek's suffering would have been prolonged.

He wasn't sure if actual horse tranquilizers were used but none of the adults protested when Bennie took out a syringe the size of a turkey baster. The old man had taken a final look at Laura and given Cora a few sedatives to relax her nerves before leaving.

"Boy's got cojones," Bennie said in his coffee-grinder voice. He glanced back at Derek and added without a trace of irony, "He dun say much, does he?"

While Peter and Hannah had retired to their room, neither Cora nor Laura wanted to go back upstairs to the same floor Vincent was on and were now curled up together on the carpet in their wolf forms, surrounded in a nest of cushions. Derek was knocked out cold on the sofa. Almost half his face was patched with bandages and his arm was in a cast sling. One finger was splinted. Bennie had sliced open his shirt and he was covered up to his neck in a blanket, which Stiles was grateful for. He didn't want to see more of the bandages that hid the ugly lash marks on the front and back of Derek's chest.

Before she succumbed to sleep, Laura had told them what had happened, to the best of her knowledge.

She had been doing her homework when Vincent had suddenly bellowed for Derek to come into his office this instant, why had he just received a call from a tearful Kate saying that Derek didn't want her anymore? And as she sat there in horror, Derek had stiffly walked past her room, terrified but determined. Moments later, all hell had broken loose.

"It's not Kate's fault," Cora timidly tried to defend her friend. "She couldn't have known - "

"Are you kidding me? Of course she knew! Derek told her at the cookout that he wasn't going to go through with the marriage. She's the one who called Vincent and had herself invited over for dinner last time, just so she could talk to Derek and get him to change his mind. And he told her no again, that he was going to talk to mom and dad about it soon. This was her way of getting back at him. This is exactly what she wanted to happen!"

"Laura - " Nicholas tried to calm her down as Cora cowered into the corner, starting to cry again.

"Fucking bitch," Laura seethed. "If she ever shows her face here again, I'm going to kill her. Let's see how pretty she looks in a wedding dress when she's dead."

Her fury turned to Vincent. "Why is he pimping Derek out? Is he being blackmailed by Gerard?"

Neither Talia nor Nicholas had had any answers for her, sharing helpless looks over their daughter's head.

And Stiles understood with sickening clarity that they didn't know either. They simply hadn't had any say in the matter. Like an emperor simply telling his slaves how it was going to be, Vincent had ordered it, and no one had been able to say otherwise.

One of the perks of being an alpha, Stiles thought grimly. The ability to terrorize your pack to your heart's content without consequences.

Now the room was silent. All three teenagers were fast asleep, some variation of pills swimming in their system.

"I should go." Stiles slowly stood up. The Hales had been too shell-shocked over the entire ordeal to protest his presence, but he was certain they wanted time to themselves, as a pack. He wanted to be on his own as well, to have space to think.

"You're free to sleep down here if you'd like," Nicholas murmured drearily. "You're not in the way."

Stiles gave Derek one final glance. At least he was unconscious and not in pain for the time being.

He shook his head no.

Nicholas didn't argue. He looked too tired to argue. "I'm sorry you had to see this," was all he said. Talia continued to stare out the window, as still as a mannequin, arms crossed against her chest.

Stiles didn't want to go upstairs. He didn't want to stay inside the house, either. It was stifling, like being buried alive inside a tomb. He went back to the cabin instead, stepping over the dead grass that crunched like stale popcorn under his feet.

Once inside, he sank wearily into his desk chair. He didn't know how much more he could take. He rested his cheek against the crook of his arms.

The two wolf families were in good standing with the community, both rich and influential, but it was the Hales - or Vincent, to be specific - that ruled the area with an iron rod and lorded over the other packs. There was no doubt it was Gerard Argent who benefitted by gaining Derek as a son-in-law, not the other way around. So why was the old wolf so dead set on the marriage? Even if it meant trumping over the bond of mates, which they considered holy and untouchable? Any other wolf would have backed down the moment Derek said he had found his mate.

Did any of this have to do with the lake and what was going on at the preserve? Clearly Gerard knew what was happening. He was connected to all of this somehow.

Perhaps Laura wasn't completely wrong. Was Vincent using Derek as a form of hush money?

At the moment, all he unconditionally and irrevocably knew was that Vincent was an evil asshole who he could cheerfully watch spend the rest of his life rotting in jail. What kind of monster stole someone's eyes? What kind of monster assaulted his own grandson and so viciously at that?

He wouldn't let him get away with it. There had to be something he could do. Maybe he could somehow use the woman to get back at Vincent. She had said Vincent was running out of time. How long was she going to give him? He thought of the stones on Vincent's desk, how they had gone from white to black in a month. Did that mean -

There was a tapping on his door and he shot up straight. It creaked open.

"Stiles? It's me. Sorry!" Laura said contritely at the sight of him clutching his chest like he was having a heart attack, splaying her hands out to reassure him that it was only her. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"What are you doing here? Should you be walking around like that?"

She shook her head as if that was the least of her problems. "Can you come back to the house? It's Derek. "

He was already halfway across the room, almost afraid to ask. "Why? What's wrong?"

"He woke up and started panicking. He won't say anything but I think it's because you're not there. He's in a really bad state right now."

The night had grown chillier, the clouds swirling like thick fog overhead, illuminated by the misshapen moon. An owl hooted, surprising him. Most of the wildlife had left the preserve. He hurried after her, neither of them speaking as they headed to the family room.

All the lights were off, the furniture hazy outlines in the dark. Talia was crouched beside her son, trying to soothe him, angry at herself for being unable to ease him out of whatever torment he was in. "Derek, honey. Please tell me what's wrong. Does it hurt? Do you want some more painkillers?"

Derek was lying sideways on the sofa. The arm not in a sling was covering his face, fist curled into his hair, and his entire body was wracked with quiet sobs. Stiles had never seen him like this before and it scared him.

"Derek, it's OK," Laura said quietly. "Stiles is here. Mom, could you please..."

Talia obligingly moved out of the way, confused as she was. Not able to meet her eyes, knowing he would deal with whatever interrogation or backlash that came his way later, he hunkered down near the sofa in front of Derek. Derek smelled like pennies under the antiseptic ointment and gauze bandages.

"Hey," he began softly. He wasn't even sure if Laura was right and he was what Derek wanted. "Derek. It's me. I'm here. I haven't gone anywhere."

Derek slowly lowered his arm. His eyes were puffy, tears slipping endlessly down his swollen cheeks. Stiles took pity on him and moved closer, forgetting that they were being watched. He gently stroked Derek's temple, the only part of his face that had been relatively spared from the beating, then skimmed fingers through the dark hair. Derek leaned desperately into the touch.

"Yeah, it's me. See? I'm here." Stiles smiled at him encouragingly. He tugged a few sheets of tissue out from a box from nearby and carefully dabbed at Derek's face. "Don't cry. Your bandages are going to get soggy."

He told Derek how brave he had been today, how proud Stiles was of him. How everything was going to be alright, just as Nicholas had said. He kept talking, keeping his voice tender and soothing. Gradually, Derek relaxed, growing droopy from the hypnotics lulling him back into unconsciousness. Stiles tucked the blanket up to Derek's neck.

"Sleep. I'll be right here when you wake up. I promise."

He continuing to stroke his hair until Derek's eyes slid shut. He rested his head on the edge of the sofa, listening to Derek's labored breathing, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He had never hated himself as much as he did now. He had tried so hard to keep Derek safe in his own, stupid way and had ultimately failed.

There was an ominous creak of the floorboards and he looked around to see Vincent's giant frame filling the doorway, the man watching him impassively. He was so big the top of his white head grazed the lintel. Their eyes met and Stiles stiffened in alarm. He instinctively shielded Derek with his upper body, hiding him away from those ruthless blue eyes. He felt the coiling tension of the others in the room, all of them poised to act the moment Vincent took a step forward. But the old wolf simply took in the scene before him for a moment before moving on. The awful _clump, clump_ of the walking stick echoed through the hall before gradually fading away.

He went limp in relief for only a second before realizing Talia and Nicholas were looking at him.

"I'm so sorry," he said wretchedly in a nearly inaudible whisper, knowing they could hear him from across the room. "It's all my fault. This - "

Talia interrupted him, her voice drained of energy. "Stiles. No more. No more tonight. Get some sleep."

He complied. He lowered himself down on the carpet and stretched out in the narrow space between the sofa and the coffee table, turning so that he was facing Derek. A curled hand was poking out over the edge of the sofa. Stiles didn't know that if anyone was to look directly down at them from straight above, it appeared as though he and Derek were reaching out to one another.

Someone - Talia or Nicholas, he didn't know who - placed a cushion under his head and draped a quilt over him.

He didn't want to sleep. He wanted to figure out what he needed to do to protect Derek, to make sure that Vincent would never lay a finger on him again.

But eventually, he was overcome by weariness and the traumatizing events of the day, and he too closed his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Derek was gone when he woke up. There was nothing but a long indent in the sofa cushions and Stiles couldn't stop staring at it.

His dreams had been bad. Simple and short, but bad, over and over again, like a stutter that wouldn't leave his tongue. He had woken up and Derek was gone. Carried out, dead, in the middle of the night by hands that reached out from the darkness. His pupils white and unseeing as Gerard's. When Stiles woke up again, screaming noiselessly, Derek was gone.

Stiles sat up on the carpet, the quilt falling to his lap, staring at the empty sofa. His panic was beginning to morph into something he soon wouldn't be able to control.

"He went outside," came a voice from behind him. Startled, he whipped around to see Laura sitting against the wall. Cora was still asleep, huddled around a thick blanket, her head in Laura's lap. Laura was stroking her sister's dark fur. It was late in the morning, stony gray light filtering through the curtains. The clock said it was ten thirty. Apparently, no one was going to school today. "I think he needed some air."

"And you let him?" Stiles asked incredulously. Not that he didn't understand the need to get away, but was it really necessary for Derek to go commune with nature right now?

"What was I supposed to do, threaten to beat him up if he left?" Laura sniped, then hurriedly patted Cora when she let out a whimper in her sleep. Stiles found he had nothing to say to that.

"Where is everyone else?" he whispered, not wanting to wake Cora.

"Peter finally managed to convince Aunt Hannah to stay at her sister's until he feels it's safe to come home. He drove her over there an hour ago and hasn't returned yet. So they're not here. Dad had to go to work. Mom's around somewhere. She has a lot on her mind."

He thought of what Peter had said last night. Were they seriously considering a coup?

He looked down at the empty sofa one last time. "I'm going to be out for awhile."

"What?" This time it was Laura who panicked. Her eyes grew wide, voice rising. "Where are you going?"

He could tell what she was thinking. _What if Derek returns and sees you gone again?_

"I'll be back as soon as possible. Give me a call if I'm needed."

If their plan was to get rid of Vincent, then he was going to help them. And to do that, he needed to understand what Vincent was up to. What his agenda was in all this.

He thought he might have a clue.

 

* * *

 

"Hello?" No answer, although someone had picked up on the other end. "Um, hello?"

He had parked his jeep at the end of the Hales driveway where the road headed out to town and was sitting in the driver's seat, phone to his ear, a scrap of paper with a string of numbers scribbled down in hand. It was the strangest sensation, looking out through his front windshield at the lush foliage, while the landscape behind him looked like a nuked wasteland.

"Yes? Who is this?" The strident voice belonged to a young woman. She sounded irritated, as if he were calling in the middle of the night.

"I'm sorry," he said meekly. She reminded him of someone, though he wasn't sure exactly who. "Isn't this Professor Alan Deaton's office?"

He had never met Alan Deaton, although he knew of him. He was the leading man in the field of supernatural anthropology and folklore. Stiles had found his number on the university website yesterday. If anyone could help him with this, he was sure it would be Deaton.

"It is."

"May I speak to him?" he asked after a beat. Having a conversation with her was like pulling teeth. She really needed to talk faster. He didn't have the time or the patience for this crap. "My name's Stiles Stilinski and I have something I was hoping he could take a quick look at."

"No, you may not. He's not here at the moment."

"Oh. Uh. When will he be back? It's kind of urgent." Maybe he could ask for Deaton's personal number.

"He's in Machu Picchu right now."

Machu Picchu? What the heck. Hopes dashed, he let out a long, very disappointed whine without realizing he was doing it. He felt like banging his head against the steering wheel.

She breathed out a ticked off sigh through her nose. "What is it? The thing you want to show Professor Deaton."

He scrubbed at his forehead. Now what was he supposed to do? "It's something on my body."

"Look," she began dangerously, "if that something is what I think it is - "

"No. No," he hastened to explain. "It's not my... _that_. I didn't have it a month ago. I mean, it materialized suddenly on my skin and I have absolutely no idea what it is."

"Maybe you should go to a doctor."

He clenched his jaw because if it had even remotely looked like a medical problem, he wouldn't have bothered calling an esteemed college professor in the field of Anthropology for help. Did she really think he was that dim-witted? "It's a strange marking on the back of my neck. It looks like it's been made by a rubber stamp and it's the size of a... well, a postage stamp, and there's writing inside it. My guess would be Chinese."

"I can take a look at it," she said, surprising him. She didn't sound like the type of person who would go out of her way to help someone. Maybe she was intrigued. Whatever the reason, he wasn't going to tell her no. He was running out of options.

"Uh, thanks. Yes. I'd be grateful if you could take a quick look. It's really important, I can't stress that enough. Do you want me to email it to you? I have a picture."

"No. I can be at Cafe Madam in ten minutes. You owe me a cupcake."

Stiles frowned uncomprehendingly. "Excuse me?"

"You sat on my cupcake when you were in the 10th grade, Stilinski."

This made him pause for a second. "Lydia? Lydia Martin?" he asked in pure, mind-boggled astonishment. He was talking to _the_ Lydia Martin?

"The one and only. Will you be there or not?"

He had thought she sounded familiar. "Uh, wow. Yes, I will. Be there. I will be there."

"I can tell you haven't changed one bit," she said drolly. With that, she hung up.

The coffee shop was near by the university and not far away from where he was. He could get back to the house quick enough if Laura called him. Traffic was light at this hour and he drove over in record time with two minutes to spare, because this was Lydia Martin and if she was still the same as she had been all throughout high school, she did not like being kept waiting.

The place was fairly empty and he found a table. It was sticky and he moved to another one. He didn't have to wait long. Seconds later, a red mini skirt with strong, tan legs came into view and Lydia slid into the seat across from him.

"Hey, doofus. Wow, you look horrible."

He laughed a little, knowing how true that statement must be. He couldn't remember being so exhausted.

Lydia herself was stunning, eyes sparking with mirth as they appraised him thoroughly from head to toe, her silky hair darker, as if it had been purged in fire. He would never have imagined he'd be sitting at a shop with Lydia, just the two of them alone. Sure, it wasn't a date or anything, but still.

"It's been a really long time. How long has it been?" Three years. It had been over three years. He hadn't seen her since graduation. He didn't think they'd swapped fifty words during high school, most of it consisting of him apologizing frantically after, yes, flattening her cupcake with his left buttock. In his defense, it had been due to bad timing on her part. And here she was, sitting across from him, smiling like none of that mattered now and she was truly thrilled to see him. It was funny how things turned out.

"I've seen you around town once or twice. You turned out nice. You've done a real Neville Longbottom."

He didn't want to admit it but, "I don't know what that means."

"Really? What kind of nerd are you?" She grinned, flashing a row of teeth. "The kind that runs with wolves, I suppose. I hear you're still working for the Hales."

"Yeah. I can't imagine not working for them," he said. And it was the truth. He didn't want to leave them to go to Turkey. Or any other place in the world. He didn't want to ever tell them goodbye.

Wanting to change the subject, he quickly dipped a hand into his threadbare messenger bag and pulled out his wallet. "Uh. Should we order? I do distinctly remember accidentally smushing your cupcake with my butt. Get anything you want."

She winked as they both stood up. "I intend to."

A few minutes later they brought back their orders, black coffee for Stiles and a cupcake for Lydia. She had selected the largest, most expensive one they offered, probably on purpose, piled high with strawberry frosting. She licked at it like an ice cream cone. The barista had completely butchered his name on the paper cup, misspelling it from the third letter on and giving up half way. _Styl._

They chatted briefly, reminiscing about their past, then touching a little bit on their present. She was an assistant for Alan Deaton, had been for about two years now. He listened as she told him Jackson was interning at a some prestigious law firm and made socially appropriate sounds of interest, although he didn't particularly care how or what the douche was doing. He wasn't exactly a proponent of the multiverse theory, but if it were true, he liked to think he hated Jackson Whittemore in all of them. He would be so disappointed in himself if he didn't. If her amused expression was anything to go by, Lydia knew this and was simply talking about her boyfriend just to see him pretend to care.

Then Lydia asked to see whatever it was he wanted her to see.

He turned his back towards her and undoing the top button of his shirt, lowered the collar, but not so much that the other patrons would get the impression that he was disrobing in public. "See? Right underneath my neck?"

She went over to him and leaned forward. A finger began to scrape at his neck like it was one of those scratch-off lottery tickets. Did she really have to do that? He swallowed a sound of discomfort. But seriously, she really needed to clip her nails.

"You're right. This is Chinese." Just as Laura had done several days ago, she took a few pictures with her cell phone. He heard the rapid clicking of the app.

"What do you think?" He sat staring at his lap, hands curled into fists, hoping that she would immediately know what it was and tell him what to do and solve all his problems. She was one of the smartest people he knew and she must have learned something while working for professor Deaton. Now that the initial excitement of meeting Lydia had worn off, he realized he was tired and glum and lost. He wanted to see Derek.

Lydia sat back in her seat. "This reminds me of an East Asian name seal. A name is carved into a hard object like stone or wood, sometimes jade, and then used with red ink or cinnabar paste. It's pressed down onto paper to leave an imprint, often used in place of a signature in official documents. Think of it like the wax seals used in Europe with the house insignia pressed into the wax."

She had started tapping away on her cell phone while she spoke. "However, having absolutely no knowledge of the Chinese language other than how to say "I love you," I have no idea what it says. If it's actually a name or - "

"Or?"

"Words are incredibly powerful, aren't they? Many people believe the universe was spoken into existence. Magic doesn't always require eye of newt and toe of frog." She drummed her fingers on the table, pensive. "There was a case a few years back where a woman tattooed herself all over her body with an incantation to kill what she believed to be a hideous-looking evil spirit that had been shadowing her family for generations."

She shrugged. "This may be a written spell of some sort. But what it's supposed to do, I don't know."

A spell. Huh. He didn't know what to make of that information. A spell for what? And how had it got there on his neck in the first place? "Did the woman kill the evil spirit?"

"Yes, actually. The inking worked. Unfortunately, it turned out that the evil spirit was not an evil spirit, but her family's guardian angel. She killed off her family's guardian angel because it was so ugly she mistook it for a monster. And once the guard was taken out, the real demons it had been keeping away attacked. The woman was found dead in her home. She had been skinned alive."

That had to be hands down the saddest story in the world.

He was glumly sipping on the last dregs of his Americano when Lydia's phone beeped. She scooped it up from the table and read the text.

"Alright. I just got an answer from my friend who's teaching Ancient Chinese Literature at the university. He says that I'm right, the mark itself looks like a name seal, but the writing inside it isn't someone's name. It's a type of confusion spell, the purpose of which is to alter an identity or the appearance to someone else's."

Stiles pulled himself up straight in his chair. "Alter my identity? To resemble who? Does it say?"

"According to him, it says 'the blind thief.'"

The blind thief?

She was watching his reaction, an eyebrow arching. "Is that ringing a bell? It is, isn't it?"

"Shit," he replied, rubbing his face with both hands. _Shit shit shit_.

"Stiles Stilinski. Is your life in mortal peril?" Lydia demanded. "Will I be reading about you in the obituary?"

"I highly doubt it." He would most likely poof and never be heard from again. An outline of what might be going on was starting to form inside his head. He had been thinking of taking Vincent out, while all this time Vincent had been scheming to take him out. Lydia watched him anxiously. And it only made him sadder, because he knew that if only he had the chance, they could be such good friends.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No. You've done enough. I owe you." His own cell phone let out a trill and after checking the number, he quickly stood up. Laura was calling him. "I really need to get going. Thank you so much. You're amazing."

"Stiles," she called as he turned and walked away. "I'm not sure what's going on, but... please try not to die."

The bell hanging over the door jingled as he left. He couldn't make that promise.

 

* * *

 

In the end, it was too late to do anything.

"Laura?" he asked worriedly into the phone. He had walked a few feet away from the coffee shop and was standing next to a brick column. He barely saw Lydia leave the coffee shop and toss a troubled glance his way before heading off. An empty soda can clattered towards him. "Is Derek looking for me?"

"No." Her voice sounded odd. "But Vincent is. He called and asked me if I knew where you were."

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course he was.

"Stiles. What's going on? Why is he looking for you?"

He needed to tell her. "Laura. There's something - "

A hand reached out from behind him and clapped over his mouth.

"Tell her everything's fine and hang up," Gavin warm breath tickled his ear unpleasantly. "Do it."

_"Stiles?"_

He barely stopped himself from gasping as strong fingers ground the muscles in his left shoulder. "Never mind. Everything's fine. I'll be there soon."

Gavin plucked the phone out of his hand and after ending the call, tossed it into a nearby trashcan. Stiles heard it hit the bottom with a dull _thunk_.

He turned around to see Gavin standing there like a tiny mountain in a tiny shirt. "I don't think I like you talking to my girl."

"Ex-girlfriend," Stiles corrected. "She kicked you to the curb, remember? Like yesterday's trash?"

"Whatever. It's not like I need her anymore."

Despite his ardent declaration that he couldn't live without Laura, he didn't exactly appear as if he'd been withering away from a broken heart. Quite the opposite, in fact. He looked euphoric. A mix of being completely spaced out while simultaneously being completely attuned to his surroundings down to the tiniest speck of dust. For a second Stiles thought he was high on drugs, then it hit him.

"You got the bite. He gave you the bite."

Gavin's grin showed off a wicked set of fangs. "I'm a new man, Stilinski. Or should I say _werewolf_?"

_Oh, for fuck's sake._

"Good one. That's really original," Stiles scoffed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. It was the cliché phrase uttered by almost every other human once they were turned. "And you're an omega. Congratulations, you must be jumping up and down with joy."

"Nothing I can't work my way up from. Vincent said he'd catch me a nice old alpha to kill off."

"Yeah, being a sadistic bastard is his specialty."

"I don't think I like you talking about my new employer that way." Gavin yanked his arm none too gently. "Let's go for a walk."

It was the strangest feeling, walking along the roofed pathway of the plaza as if nothing was wrong. The greeter standing at the entrance of a grocery store flashed him a sunny smile, telling them to have a fantastic day.

The afternoon was balmy. A group of Girl Scouts were selling cookies a few feet away, donned in their green sashes, and they waved at him to come over. Cars whizzed by. How could everything be so normal when he was going to die today?

Gavin didn't give him much time to philosophize upon the fleeting nature of life and his role in it.

Stiles was dragged around the corner where a sleek luxury car sat idling like a giant black scarab. Gavin pulled open the back door and gave him a shove that rattled his spine. Yes, he'd been turned alright. That wasn't typical human strength.

"Get in."

He briefly considered running, not because he actually thought he had a snowball's chance in hell of escaping or because he refused to give up without a fight, but simply because it was the principal of the thing. He decided against it, knowing he wouldn't get very far and it would only be embarrassing for all involved when he got tackled to the ground like a sack of out of shape potatoes in five seconds. He slipped inside the sleek car, legs tangling a little in his nervous clumsiness. The leather seat squeaked under his clammy hands. Gavin slid in after him and closed the door.

There was an element of a Russian mob kidnapping to all of this, which he hadn't really expected from a bunch of Weres. Then again, Vincent liked to do things in style.

Sitting across from him were Vincent and Yumie. Vincent was clutching his walking stick and he regarded Stiles gravely, but with the same indifference as last night.

The car engine rumbled to life and it slowly eased into the street. He didn't have to be told they were headed to the lake. The partition between the driver's seat and the rear passenger compartment was up and completely tinted and he had no idea who was doing the driving. Vincent had a throng of lackeys only too happy to do his bidding so it was anyone's guess.

"So you're the one my son believes to be his mate.

Stiles was defiant. What was the use of lying? He loathed the disdainful expression on Vincent's face. "Yes, I am."

Vincent sneered as if that was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard, showing Stiles exactly what his opinion was on his grandson's taste. "It's of no matter now. He'll never be seeing you again."

"You've been planning this for a month, haven't you? Ever since you asked me to do a "little favor" for you. You sent me to the lake in the hopes that she'd take my eyes from me and be satisfied with it. Only she's not a _fucking thief_ like you are and doesn't steal what doesn't belong to her."

Vincent scowled at him from under bushy white eyebrows. Bingo.

And once that failed, he'd simply gone onto the next step. Trick her into thinking he was Vincent. He'd been Vincent's pawn all along. He was so stupid, so desperate to prove that he could be better than Gavin, to prove that he could be useful to have around.

"And you're in it too," he said to Yumie. "Did he find you in the Yellow Pages under psychotic witch?"

She shook her head and smiled like the Mona Lisa, unperturbed at his accusation. "Oh, no. Mr. Hale and I go a long way back. I've worked with him before on various cases as his advisor. I'm much older than I look, you know. Much older."

"And you're helping him again," he said bitterly.

"It's a fascinating case. There was a lot of planning that needed to go into it. A lot of waiting. You need to know, Stiles, that this was Vincent's last resort. He didn't want to involve you in this. But killing something that has already died once is very difficult," she said, as if any of that was supposed to make him feel better. "This was his only option. I truly hope you understand that."

"You killed her?" Stiles said. "Stealing her eyes wasn't enough?"

"No, I did not kill her. I had her killed," Vincent answered, as if the last part absolved him of everything. He was more delusional than Stiles had originally believed. "That was Gerard. He killed her for me and for that I am grateful."

"That's why you're giving him Derek in marriage to Kate." This was so fucked up. "Like... a token of appreciation for doing your dirty work for you. He's your grandson! He's not something you can hand out!"

"It was what Gerard requested when I asked him what it was he wanted in return for his loyalty and service to me. I didn't question him. He must have his reasons," Vincent said simply. "As I said before, I always pay off my debts. As should you."

"Me?"

"Yes," Vincent rumbled. He seemed to grow larger in self-righteousness, a behemoth filling more than half the backseat of the car. "When your father passed away, was I not kind enough to take you under my wing? I have provided you with a roof over your head, a place to sleep, with food, with protection, with privilege. With the family that you so desired to have once more. And is it not right, that you should die for your family?"

He spoke with the conviction of a man utterly sure that his actions were right and true. "If you truly care for my grandson, you will do this. You are useless to him. You cannot bear him children, you cannot offer him anything good in life. You're a stray, without connection or status or a penny to your name. You're nothing.

"It's better this way. And if Kate is not his mate and he doesn't love her, so what of it? Marriages have been built on far less. Wouldn't you rather he be alive and mourning you, than dead? Because I will not tolerate insubordination from anyone. Especially within my own pack."

The meaning behind his words chilled Stiles. "You'd kill your grandson? Your own daughter?"

And from Vincent came the ultimate absurdity: "If there's one thing I've learned about offspring, is that you can always make more of them. Women are like vending machines, Mr. Stiles. You slip a few coins inside, out comes the drink."

 _OK, then._ He'd never heard sex explained with that particular analogy before, but whatever.

"So you stole her eyes. You had Gerard kill her."

Vincent sighed. His tone was almost wistful. He spoke as if speaking to himself. "I came upon the preserve nearly a century ago. There was a lake."

It was a beautiful lake, teeming with life, with many creatures coming to drink from its deep, clear waters. It was the heart of the preserve.

A spirit lived there. She was gentle and kind and the land flourished under her care. One day a badly wounded omega found its way to the lake, for one last sip of water to quench its thirst before it died. It was young and blind from birth, and it was a miracle that he had survived this long. The spirit found him on the brink of death and had compassion on him. She tended to his wounds and he lived.

He grew strong, thriving on her magic, and as the years passed, he and the spirit became lovers. But he was still blind and yearned to see.

He begged for her to give him her eyes for a month, so that he would be able to see the splendors of the world for a short while. He promised he would return to her. At first she refused. But he grew so persistent, demanding she do so as proof of her love that she finally relented, wanting to give him the gift of sight, even for a short while. She loved him and love makes you do irrational things.

But during his travels he met the daughter of a prominent businessman and his heart was dazzled at the prospect of a life of luxury. What use to him was a woman who had nothing, who could only leave the lake during the full moon? When he came back to the preserve, it was with his new fiancée hanging from his arm. And when he returned to the lake, it was with Gerard and a sword.

"You're a fucking piece of garbage," Stiles said disconsolately. "You and Gerard both. And you too, Gavin."

Vincent watched from nearby while Gerard slaughtered her. And when Gerard ripped open her chest and brought Vincent her fresh heart, he had eaten it, consuming her powers. He had then been free to take over the land as his own kingdom.

As for the spirit, she was forgotten, her body hidden at the bottom of the lake that had been her home for centuries.

"Only now, she's back from the dead somehow. You didn't expect that, did you? And she wants her eyes returned," Stiles said viciously. "It doesn't seem like such outrageous request to me. You've had it for at least 50 years longer than you said you would. You stole them from her. Who steals someone's eyes?"

The knowledge that he was going to die today was making him reckless. He wouldn't have dared speak to Vincent this way before. He wanted to be angry. It was better than being scared.

"You loved her, didn't you? You were going to propose and ask her to marry you. I saw the ring. You took a picture of her when you were blind. You still have it after all these years and you look at it all the time."

Vincent, who had gone from looking contemptuous to mildly amused up until now, suddenly went rigid. His lips were pressed thin inside his clipped beard. "That's enough. Stop talking. So it was you who came into my office. I should have known."

"How can you do that to someone you love? No wonder you've been so unhappy all these years. Yeah, you think Weres are the only people that can sense emotions? I know how miserable you are. Money couldn't buy you everything or fill that hole in your heart, could it? She was your _mate_. She loved and trusted you with everything she had and you - "

His head cracked to the side as Vincent whipped the handle of his stick across his face. Stiles' trembling hand went to his cheek.

"I told you that's enough."

The vehicle trundled to a stop. It had made a valiant effort, carving a path through the dead trees and forest terrain, but this was the farthest it could go.

Yumie leaned forward. There was a small knife tucked in the palm of her hand. The blade was rounded and slightly concave, made of glossy black stone.

"So you're just going to scoop my eyes out with a melon baller and toss them into the lake?" Stiles asked, trying to sound calm. His cheek was inflamed and throbbing.

"Turn around, please." She sounded so incredibly polite that it was almost comical in this situation. Like she was the hostess at an upscale restaurant about to take his jacket. "Hold him still. Don't let him move."

Gavin clasped a hand around each of Stiles' biceps, effectively pinning him down.

Yumie pressed the blade to the back of Stiles' neck, where the mark was located. "I apologize. This will hurt. But briefly."

The stone was cold for just a second and then it flared up, as hot as a burning lump of coal and Stiles whimpered in pain, trying to wriggle and jerk away. Gavin barely budged, though. The fucking poop stain was enjoying this, getting off on him being tortured, Stiles realized in dismay. He was actually hard, the front of his pants tented.

"Stop being such a wuss, Stilinski."

Stiles could only moan softly in answer, waiting for the searing pain to subside.

Yumie examined his neck. "It's done. I've strengthened the spell."

"I don't think it worked. He doesn't look any different," said Gavin.

"He shouldn't. Not to you, at least. It's specifically tailored to deceive her and only her."

So he looked like Vincent now to the woman. Who did Vincent look like, he wondered, then decided he couldn't care any less. He was sure they had thought of everything and covered all their bases.

Yumie wasn't done. She tucked a misshapen, earthenware bowl tucked between her legs. Taking out a thin, rectangular sheet of rice paper, she lit the corner with a lighter. Stiles watched in trepidation, sweat beading on his forehead. He hated fire and it scared him to be so close to it in an enclosed space. And as he watched, ashes of the paper dropped into the bowl, the flames hissing as they went out. Yumie mixed it with a finger and then held it out to him. Black scraps of burnt paper floated on the surface.

"Drink it."

Gavin released his arms for him to take the bowl and Stiles wiped the tears clinging from the corner of his eyes on his sleeves.

"What's this for?"

"It's a paper talisman, used to instruct or command deities or spirits to do certain things. In this case, it will bind your tongue and keep you silent. Normally we would paste it onto your skin but we can't afford to have it detach while you're in the water. Drink it."

His limbs sagged in annoyance. "Can't you just gag me or duct tape my mouth? It's not like you don't have the money to buy those things." Why did they have to go out of their way to act all occult-ish and mystical? He'd prefer gagging on a dirty sock over having to swallow this swill.

"We follow the ancient traditions. Drink it," Yumie said patiently, persistently.

He opened his mouth to vigorously complain some more and Vincent leaned forward. "If you make her repeat it one more time, I'll slice your tongue out of your mouth."

"Thank you for clarifying that. I would have otherwise jumped to the conclusion you'd be slicing it out of my butthole." Ah, yes, what was adrenaline rush and fear more than an extra motor for his mouth to run off at full speed while leaving his brain in the dust? "Some last meal this is."

At Vincent's warning glare, he snatched the bowl away. It looked and felt as if it had been fashioned out of clay and set out in the desert to go bone-dry. The drink inside was disgusting, like something scooped out of the gutter. All that was missing were the cigarette butts.

If he really was going to turn mute, he wanted to say something one last time, something profound and meaningful, marking the passage of his death. A badass one-liner a badass character in a movie would say before he died.

Nothing came to mind.

Disappointed in himself, he brought the bowl up to his lips _. Cheers, Stilinski_.

Somehow this was worse than the hot blade because he had to do the work of forcing himself to swallow it down. He gagged several times until the bowl was empty and a satisfied Yumie took it away.

"We can go now," she said.

Vincent opened his side of the door and pale light streamed into the car, highlighting the particles of dust drifting about.

Stiles stepped out, the parched grass cracking under his feet. It was depressing standing in the middle of the sepia-toned forest. His stomach was queasy and his throat itchy, as if there were bits of paper stuck in his esophagus.

"Hands like this, please." Still ever so nice and polite, Yumie demonstrated what she wanted him to do, crossing her arms together in front of her. Pulling out a length of rope, she then proceeded to bind his wrists in the most complicated knot ever known to man. She had either been in the Navy or was into some really kinky shit.

"Go on. That direction." Vincent pushed his shoulder with the end of his walking stick. By now Stiles was beginning to think of that stick as a separate entity from Vincent. He wanted to break it in half and throw it in fire and watch it turn into a pile of ashes.

He thought of making some kind of noise, like a microphone check, just to see if the paper talisman had worked but it didn't seem worth the effort. He supposed he wound find out soon enough.

None of them spoke as they began to walk. Vincent took the lead, taking sure footed steps without any hesitation. He hadn't gone near the lake for more than half a century and he didn't have a compass to guide him, but Stiles supposed some things you never forgot.

Stiles walked between Vincent and Gavin. He stumbled a few times, unable to keep his balance with his tied hands and buckling legs and Gavin hiked him up by the back of his collar. Stiles cursed him silently.

Too soon, they were there. It was the same as it had been before, the water rancid and unmoving, a dank acrid cloud hanging in the air. The complete absence of sound was unnerving. It was even more amplified, now that the entire preserve was empty of life.

They stopped at a safe distance away from the water's edge. Gavin picked up a rock, glancing at Vincent to see if the old Were would protest, and when he didn't, threw it into the lake in one smooth arc of his arm.

They stood there, waiting for something to happen. They didn't have to wait for long. The surface didn't even ripple as she rose from the waters slowly. The spirit of the lake.

It was her, the woman who had visited him on the full moon. She looked just the way she had then, her chest open where Gerard had tore into it, the heart pulsing like a moonstone caught in the strands of a web. The hem of the dress seemed to be connected to the water, or was she dressed in the lake itself? Stiles didn't know. She glided closer.

"Ondine," Vincent whispered behind him, his voice reverent and awed for the first time Stiles had ever heard him speak. And Stiles realized without a doubt that Vincent still loved her. This just made him more of a bastard in Stiles' book.

But it was Stiles her unseeing gaze was directed.

"Have you enjoyed seeing the world? Has its sights been pleasing to you, you conniving little thief?"

"You're the one who was stupid enough to give your eyes away," Gavin said. Stiles wished he would shut the fuck up.

"Be careful. Try not to touch the waters," Yumie warned the others. She actually gave Stiles an affectionate hug, as if she was so proud of him. "This is a good thing. You can be with your parents again," she whispered earnestly. She gave his shoulders a brief squeeze and released him.

It was horrible, not being able to talk, when he had been free to babble to his heart's content all his life ever since he was three and could string sentences together. Not very good sentences, sure, but enough to give his mother a headache by the end of the day. Nothing had been able to stop him, not angry teachers threatening detention nor tetchy librarians shushing him and pointing to 'silence is golden' signs hanging from the wall. And now, thanks to a cruddy potion, his voice had left the building.

He was basically the little mermaid in the version with the tragic ending. The even darker version where the mermaid ended up as the donor of an eye transplant against her will.

He wouldn't get to live happily ever after with the handsome prince.

Vincent whipped his stick across the back of Stiles' calves and with a noiseless cry, he sank to his knees, the water seeping through his jeans.

Ondine moved towards him, slowly, as if she wasn't ready to harm the man she had once loved. Her face was so sad that Stiles found himself wishing he could talk, at least for a few seconds, so he could apologize on Vincent's behalf for being such a narcissistic, selfish pig.

He stopped struggling, making his body go slack. He saw no way out of this. Maybe Vincent was right. Maybe it was better this way. Vincent would never let Derek and him be together.

The water seemed to wrap itself around him. He was slowly being dragged forward, the water level rising rapidly over his body. Ironic, how he'd once thought he'd die by fire, trapped inside a blazing room, windows splintering from the heat and the ceiling crashing down on him. Now he knew how his life ended. In a watery grave.

He seemed to go down forever. His chest began to ache from him holding his breath for so long. He pried open his eyes that he'd been clenching shut. It was dark all around him. She was the only pale thing in the murkiness, her white hair fanning out around her face.

When he glanced down, he saw his feet drifting into what seemed like a black, bottomless pit. He suddenly remembered that he had always been afraid of the ocean since he was little, after seeing a drawing of a prehistoric fish swimming up to swallow a large boat whole. It was a horrible thing to remember at a time like this.

She reached out. Her fingers were webbed, connected with gossamer skin. The water itself wasn't very cold, but the moment she touched him, his entire body locked up in shock.

He hoped she wouldn't be disappointed with his eyes. Derek had liked them. He remembered the way Derek had kissed his eyelids, first one, then the other. He realized that more than anything, he wanted to see Derek one last time.

Up on the ground, there was tremendous roar. He heard it even underwater, the tremors vibrating against his chilled body. Moments later, something black and huge plunged into the depths beside him, thrashing wildly, clawing at Ondine, trying to wrest him away from her grip.

An arm grabbed his waist and then he was jerked upwards. He broke the surface, spewing out water and coughing, his head throbbing madly. He must have vomited a little. His throat ached and blackened pieces of paper were bobbing around him.

Derek.

Derek was treading the water, but he was gripping Stiles against him with his good arm. The other arm was still clumsy and he couldn't use it well. Stiles tried to tell him that it was OK, Derek should let him go, but his tongue felt like a piece of frozen liver stuffed into his mouth. Right. He couldn't talk even if he wanted to. His brain was sluggish and he tried to concentrate.

The water swirled like a whirlpool and Ondine rose up again. Derek splashed away from her, cradling Stiles against him. He was the only thing emanating heat in this frigid lake and at that point, Stiles welcomed the warmth more than the idea that Derek could save him. The real horror was Derek's arm. Still unhealed from Vincent's attack, it had ripped open again and tendrils of pink were swirling out.

Oh, God, please don't let there be a wereshark down there, Stiles thought stupidly. At this point anything seemed possible.

He struggled to push Derek away but the wolf was persistent, keeping Stiles close against his own body, as if he were the one drowning and Stiles was the life preserver.

Vincent's livid roaring pierced though the mayhem. Stiles' face dipping below the surface of the water for a moment. When he came back up, spluttering, he caught a glimpse of Talia fighting her father. Laura was there as well, up against Gavin. Yumie didn't have any more tricks up her sleeve and simply stood there watching, waiting for a side to win.

"What? What are you talking about? He's not Vincent!" Derek shouted from beside Stiles and he tried to stay focused on his immediate situation. He realized Ondine had been saying something, her webbed hands still reaching out to take him from Derek. "Vincent's up there!"

Ondine paused, the foam churning around her the only sign of her anger and bemusement.

"You lie."

"I'm not lying. He's not who you want. Don't touch him," he snarled when she reached for Stiles again.

"Give him to me."

"He's not. He's not. You have to believe me. He's not Vincent. Please." Derek was desperate, spitting out water, doing his best to convince her while keeping both of them afloat with his wounded arm. Stiles tried to help, kicking his numb legs as best as he could, but he was useless with his bound hands, useless without his voice. His head lolled against Derek's shoulder. His skin was turning blue. "Stiles. Stay awake. Vincent's up over there on the shore. He's tricking you!"

"Shut up! Don't you say another word! Get out of there! I said get out!" Vincent was grasping at Derek, attempting to pull him out of the lake. It wasn't easy, even with his strength. He didn't dare step into the water and Derek was fighting back madly.

But Derek was still unhealed from Vincent's beating, and even in his best condition he was no match for his grandfather. Vincent flung his walking stick to the side and using both hands, he hauled Derek out. He tore Stiles away from Derek and flung him backwards, where he landed sideways on the shoreline, the water lapping over his cheek and nose.

Vincent was furious. He swung a hand across Derek's face, the force spinning him to the ground.

"You filthy little whelp. He's nothing. He's not pack. And you betray me for him?"

Derek staggered and slipped, groaning in pain as he tried to push himself back up, scrambling towards Stiles.

Vincent swung again but Derek managed to avoid his blow and stumbled back into the water. Stiles felt an arm pulling him close and cradling him against his chest. "Stiles. Wake up. Please."

Wasn't he awake? He couldn't tell anymore. He tried to part his eyes open. He had to blink several times before the fogginess was wiped away and he could make anything.

Derek was sitting on the marshy ground, pale from loss of blood, too weak and exhausted to move anymore, shuddering as he held Stiles against him.

Vincent was screaming obscenities in front of them, Ondine was behind them. Which of them was the lesser evil? Stiles didn't know anymore. He just wanted to sleep forever. He didn't care what happened anymore. He was so cold. He hadn't known it was possible for someone to be this cold and still be alive.

"Take me instead," he heard Derek whisper hoarsely.

That snapped him out of it. Stiles shook his head feebly, trying to convey that there was no way in hell he was going to let that happen, it was unacceptable, then retched up more water.

He must have heaved out enough of the drink. He realized he could hear himself groaning and tried to form words instead. "Derek," he slurred brokenly. It was all he managed before a coughing fit started up again. How much water had he swallowed?

"You insolent mutt! Let go of him before I kill you both!" Vincent was baying, completely out of his mind. He had shifted into a foaming at the mouth monster twice his original size, standing on his hind legs. "Drop him!"

It was Talia who ended the madness. After sending her flying into an old oak tree, where she crumpled to the ground in a heap and briefly lost unconsciousness, Vincent had made the mistake of forgetting about her while dealing with his grandson.

She was up now and back on her feet. She had been slashed by Vincent's claws and three parallel lacerations ran down her left thigh. She quietly limped over to the walking stick lying on the ground and picked it up. Vincent wasn't able to pick up the sound of her unsheathing a sword out of the stick over his own infuriated howling. By the time Gavin noticed and tried to warn him with a yelp, it was too late.

With an enraged cry, face contorted in anger, she plunged the sword through her father's back straight up to the hilt. Vincent had kept the blade sharp over the years since it had last been used and it sliced through him with ease. Vincent bellowed, in anger and surprise and anguish. Stiles wished he could cover his ears. He had never heard noise like that before.

The strike itself was not fatal, but the force sent Vincent tumbling forward, his legs folding and bringing him to his knees.

And Ondine moved swiftly. Stiles didn't know what exactly it was she was seeing, if he still looked like Vincent to her and Vincent looked like someone else, but she seemed to have figured out what was going on.

Waves crashed over the old wolf like a stormy night at sea and a huge whirling column of water rose up over his head. There was a wild thrashing inside and Vincent began to scream. Derek clutched Stiles tighter as they watched.

Then everything subsided.

The column of water crashed down, foam dissolving along the shore.

Vincent was slouched over on his knees in a pool of pink gore, speared by his sword, his arms hanging motionless at his side. Nothing but holes remained where his eyes had been and Stiles knew he was dead.

At last, Ondine slowly opened her eyes. They gleamed blue and serene as she looked back at them. It was strange seeing Vincent's eyes in her. Or had it been her eyes in Vincent? Either way, they had finally found their rightful owner.

Talia pulled herself back up to her feet and bent down. She glanced at the body of her father without compassion, her own eyes turning red. Taking the empty sheath of the walking stick, she snapped it in half and threw it into the water.

"Do whatever you want with him," she said to Ondine. "He's all yours. Fucking bastard."

The lake was calm now, as still as the surface of a mirror. Stiles rested against the rise and fall of Derek's warm chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. It was nice, so nice. He could have spent all day cuddled up against Derek. His only wish was that the water didn't stink so much.

"Are you hurt?" Derek asked softly. Fingers roamed the length of his body, searching for any injuries.

Stiles croaked, found that he still couldn't form words all that well, and tried to mime with his tied hands that he had been through a lot the past few hours and he was super exhausted and yes, the bruise on his cheek was painful but no, he wasn't hurt, not in the way Derek was asking.

They helped each other up. The chill that had been overtaking his body was gone and his shivering was coming to a gradual stop, the color returning to his skin. He had also stopped coughing up water. Derek extracted a claw and Stiles held out his hands so he could cut through the squelchy rope. He rubbed at his chafed wrists, trying to get the circulation back. Grimacing, he picked the last scraps of burnt paper off his tongue.

Derek's arm was hanging useless at his side, blood leaking from the ripped flesh. All but one of the bandages on his face had washed away, revealing the ugly bruises and cuts hidden beneath, and Stiles pressed a palm to the side of Derek's face carefully. Stiles realized he really wanted Derek to kiss him.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Derek asked again.

Stiles nodded that he was.

"Why isn't he talking?" Laura came over and wanted to know, frowning at him. Almost all her hair had been pulled out of her ponytail and her lips were split. She looked... well, actually, they all looked like the lone survivors of a plane crash, with the exception of Yumie, who was sitting primly on a log.

Stiles mimed that they had given him a potion to drink and thus couldn't say a word, just like the little mermaid, and -

"OK, I got the point," Laura said irately, already having lost interest once she saw that he was going to be fine. She went over to Gavin and cuffed him upside the head. He looked like a mangy, crestfallen dog. "Hey, cunt. Up on your feet."

Stiles looked at the lake one last time. Ondine was gone. Vincent was still there on his knees, head bowed low. It was over. It was really over.

Talia limped over to her daughter and gathered her in a hug. "Come on. Let's go home."

 

* * *

 

Stiles was out alone on the deck, looking out into the preserve. The color had returned to the grass, plumping up green and fresh. The trees were coming back to life again, the crumbled brown leaves smoothing out. The air smelled like springtime.

It had started while they were straggling back to the house, Laura growling at Gavin to keep moving before she ripped off his arms and shoved them up his ass, a sea of green slowly passing them by. Now nearly all of the forest was back to the way it had been before. Stiles knew that if he were to ever go back, the lake would have been restored to its former splendor. He hoped Ondine was at peace.

The horses were fine, the cloudiness having left their eyes. Gerard was still blind though, and probably would be for the rest of his life. Stiles found it very difficult be sympathetic.

The patio door slid open and Laura came out. She had washed up and was almost completely healed. "Uncle Peter just called. Hannah's gone into labor. He says it won't be long."

Born on the day your grandfather died. He didn't know how to feel about that.

He had briefed Talia and Nicholas, who left work as soon as Talia called him, of the entire story and what had been going on. They were now at the station to hand over Yumie and Gavin and explain why Vincent Hale would never be returning home. Stiles needed to go in tomorrow to make a statement of his own. A doctor on staff at the station had assured them the mark on his neck was essentially harmless now and simple enough to remove. She could do it for him when he came in tomorrow. Stiles decided he could wait a day. He was in no hurry.

Vincent was really gone. It felt like the end of an era. But no matter how inexperienced she was, Stiles knew Talia would be a better alpha than her father had ever been.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" He said. He was referring to the forest, but also to the fact that he could talk again. It was wonderful.

They stood together for a few minutes, silent, then Laura said, "Cora and I are going over to see Hannah now. Do you want to come along with us?"

Stiles shook his head. "No. I'd like to stay here, if you don't mind. I need to fix things with Derek."

Laura paused, then smiled in delight when his meaning hit home. "He's close by. You better be good to him."

Waving at her as she went back inside the house, he stepped off the wooden deck and went in search of Derek.

Bennie had come by again at Talia's request. Derek, who had been the worst off, had been the first to be treated and he disappeared the moment the old man finished with him.

Derek hadn't run off deep into the preserve as he had initially feared, which would have made him impossible to find. Just as Laura had said, he was close by, sitting on a stone bench with his back to Stiles, his right arm back in the sling he had tossed aside while running to the lake. His face was patched with white strips of gauze.

"Hey," Stiles said softy. He cautiously sat down next to Derek and basked in the warmth of the sunlight over his arms. It was nice being dry again. He didn't want to go near a body of water for the rest of his life. "How are you holding up?"

Derek didn't answer.

"You know, this has got to stop. You're getting hurt far too often. It's unacceptable." Stiles hesitated, more nervous than he remembered being in a very long time. "Actually, that's not what I meant to say. What I mean is, thank you. For saving my life."

He didn't know why this was so hard. If he were honest with himself, some part of him had conceitedly hoped Derek would make this easy for him. But he sat there, stiff and cold, closed off. Stiles clutched his hands together. He could do this. He had to. Now that Vincent was gone and Derek wasn't in any danger, he could ask if maybe Derek could give him another chance. Yes, he could be an asshole and he had major issues, but if Derek was willing to overlook all that and... If they could be something together.

"Derek, I - " It came out all wobbly and wrong and he stopped. He cleared his throat.

"You should go."

"Go?" Stiles repeated. Did Derek want to be alone?

"To Turkey, on that research trip. You should quit working for my parents and go with your professor."

Stiles was too stunned to say anything for a few seconds. He hadn't known Derek knew anything about that. He stammered out, "Is... is that what you want?"

Derek nodded. "It'll be easier if you're not nearby. It'll be easier to forget you."

"Oh."

"You were right. It is just a stupid high school crush."

"Oh," Stiles said again, this time in a whisper. It would have hurt less had he been shot in the heart.

"We'll drift apart, busy living our own lives. And when we bump into each other on the street, we'll just say hi and say how we should catch up sometime without meaning it and then pass each other by. In another few years I'll have a hard time remembering what you even looked like. You'll just be that guy who used to work for my parents."

Stiles dropped his head. He saw it happening all too easily and he couldn't stand the thought of that. He wanted to be with Derek. He could be in a thousand relationships and he would always look at his partner and some part of him wish it was Derek who he was looking at. He had ruined everything. It was only when the drops fell on the back of his hands that he realized he was crying.

He hurriedly wiped his wet chin and cheeks, because he didn't deserve to play the role of the victim. He could cry back in his room. If that was what Derek wanted, if he didn't want Stiles around anymore, then he would leave. After all he'd put Derek through, it was the least he could do. He owed him that much.

He opened his mouth to tell Derek that he would do whatever Derek wanted.

A mouth pressed against his in a soft kiss. "Or you can let me stay beside you, keep me forever."

For a second, Stiles was too stunned to react, but then he was kissing back, silently telling him yes, yes. Yes, that was what he wanted. He knew it was selfish of him, because Vincent was right, Derek could do so much better but...

"Yes," he answered desperately. "If you still want me."

"Good. Because I had no intention of letting any of that happening," Derek murmured against his lips and Stiles laughed shakily through his tears.

He cupped Derek's bandaged cheek. "I'm so sorry, Derek. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean any of this to happen - "

And Derek just shook his head and kissed him again.

The sky was a slice of blue quartz high above their heads. Derek was an octopus, even with one arm out of commission, and Stiles resignedly sat still as the other boy groped and pawed at him, and licked and kissed him all over his neck and face.

"How did you know where to find me?"

"I always know where you are."

His heart, which had been calming down somewhat, starting hammering away again. Because he knew what that meant.

"That was you, wasn't it? The day I first went up to the lake." The day Derek had rushed out of school. It already felt like a lifetime ago. So many things had happened since then.

"I knew you were in trouble. But by the time I got there you were already walking home."

Stiles waited until Derek was done nibbling on his ear. "I won't go to Turkey. Not if you don't want me to."

And Derek sighed like Stiles wasn't getting it. "You can go wherever you want, Stiles. As long as you're not running from me."

Stiles nodded. They could talk about it later and come to a decision together. All of a sudden, it wasn't such a big deal. He understood what Derek was saying.

"You do know you're pack, don't you?" Derek asked, scraping messy kisses along Stiles' chin. "You've always been pack."

Stiles nodded again. He did now.

Derek kept rubbing against Stiles like a cat against a pole and he finally realized he was being scent-marked. He endured it for a little while longer, then pressed Derek's arm to his side, ignoring Derek's protests and squirming.

"Stay still," he admonished. He didn't want Derek to aggravate his wounds. God, he was so beautiful Stiles didn't even know what to do with him.

Leaning forward, he bit down on the crook of Derek's neck as hard as he could manage, knowing he wouldn't hurt Derek in the least. He sucked on the skin, also as hard as he could. Derek tasted like salt and lazy Saturday mornings.

When he pulled back, he saw with satisfaction that he had left a nice red bruise. There. He'd claimed Derek too. Flushing with pleasure, Derek burrowed against him, his stubble sandpapery against Stiles' smooth cheek. Stiles tipped his head back as he was kissed and kissed again.

Derek rested their foreheads together. "Go to the dance with me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- There is one graphic scene of physical abuse  
> \- Kate doesn't set the house on fire but still manages to be evil  
> \- I apologize to anyone who feels that Cora is too OOC/annoying.  
> \- Undine, Undina or Ondine is a water nymph in European mythology. I racked my brains for a suitable name and just went with Ondine in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> \- The Hale family are all alive and well (with a couple more family members added). Stiles' parents are not. I tried to give it a twist and made it so that Stiles' dad was the one who died in a house fire.  
> \- Weres are known, and the Argents are Weres as well. Kate and Allison are sisters.  
> \- Did a little switch on the ages. Derek is 16 and Stiles is 21 (Laura is 17, Cora is 15)  
> \- The Thursday song is by Conan O'brien, a parody of Rebecca Black's Friday.  
> \- The title is from one of the many translations of Charles Baudelaire's poem "Invitation to the Voyage."


End file.
